The Lodger in 221c
by Shnlock
Summary: The Doctor moves into 211c, but something's very wrong. The murder of a Goverment Offical soon leads Sherlock to discover a more sinister plot brewing on the horizon.  Original prompt by deastrumquodvicis on Tumblr.
1. Chapter 1

The first time John saw the Doctor he was wearing nothing but a towel.

I mean, John wasn't complaining; all that running had done the Doctor good but _hell,_ meeting your new neighbour usually means wearing clothes. Usually being the operative word.

"Johnny!" The Doctor had laughed, pulling John in for a hug as if they were old friends. John was dressed to impress; his jumper ironed (_ironed!_ By Mrs Hudson, but you needn't know that) all ready for a night out with Sarah, but the woollen material quickly dampened from the press of wet skin.

And now he was being hugged. In the hallway. By a wet man.

Hm. Kinky.

"Blimey-" John pushed slightly at the strangers shoulders peeling in from his sodden jumper. "Just, who are you, exactly?"

The man grinned, pointing a finger jovially in John's face, who recoiled, back straight. John knew he wasn't an unattractive man (he hadn't gained the nickname Three Continents Watson for nothing, I'll tell you that much, the dirty boy) but even he was surprised at the contact between him and half-naked soaking wet man with lovely, lovely hai-

Not that he was looking. Nope. Not John Watson.

"I'm the Doctor," the man leant and air kissed John's left cheek, then the other, grinning all the while and smelling of strawberry shower gel. "I'm your new lodger! The lodger of two hundred and twenty one C Baker Street. Well, not _your _lodger, Mrs Hudson's. She told me you and your boyfriend live upstairs together. Not really one for boyfriends, me, much too busy, whizzing around-"

John coughed violently in surprise and chagrin; his lungs suddenly trying to make an escape. "He's not- Sherlock's not- I- I'm not-"

The Doctor waved his hands in front of John's face, "Yes, yes, whatever boyfriend, friend, partner, _love buddy _it's all the same to me-"

_Nooo, I don't want to be discussing my sexuality with you random lodger, let me go to my date in peace. Frankly, I'll need a damn shag after this._

"You said you were a Doctor? Where did you train?" Get off the subject; get off the subject, ABORT MISSION, I REPEAT, _ABORT! _

A small tut. "I said I was The Doctor, not A Doctor, although that's a bad name, 'Hello, I'm A Doctor.' No, no, doesn't have the same ring to it."

"Right." Mrs Hudson must have some sort of magnet for weird men with cheekbones like landmarks. You could loose an eye on those. John scratched his nose, "And you're… living here on your own?"

"Yes indeed! Well, until a certain Amelia Pond shows up, she went and left me. _She_ left _me!_ Can you believe it?"

"Yeah, yeah-" John wasn't listening anymore. He checked the time on his watch. "Look, mate, I've gotta go…"

The Doctor gave a curt nod, raising his eyebrows. "Aah, big date is it? You know what you need! A bowtie!"

Before John could protest – or indeed even begin to take in whatever this half-naked man was blabbing on about – the Doctor had zipped back into the open door of 221c and returned seconds later brandishing a black bowtie.

"Go on, put it on, put it on!" The Doctor thrust the bowtie into John's hands, who was far to bewildered to do anything but blink three hundred times a second.

With one hand holding his towel in place, the other pushing John towards the front door, the Doctor spoke full speed ahead, practically eating his own mouth his haste.

"-can't see how she'll resist you with that baby around your neck. One time back when I was ooh- 300 years younger, you know how it is the years start to get a bit fuzzy after 500, I wore one of these to a nightclub on Clom, purely for a dare I'll have you know, Sarah Jane said I didn't have the guts and I told her otherwise, ah, _showed_ her otherwise, and almost instantly-"

John was deposited onto Baker Street, feathers ruffled, staring back at the Doctor who was, miraculously, _still_ talking.

"-wasn't really sure what to do, I've done all that kissing business before but-"

Mercifully, a taxi drove past and John flung his hand out to hail it.

_Must. Get. Away. Cannot compute. Cannot. Compute. _

"Sorry, can we talk about this later?" John indicated at the taxi with his hand, "It's just…"

"Yes! Yes! Go _woo_ that _chick._" The Doctor gave him a double thumbs up and backed into 221, chuckling to himself.

"Bloody hell."

John clamoured into the taxi, eyes wide with shell shock. "Can you take me to Café JAX, please." He instructed the driver and fished in his pocket for his phone. Pulling it out he typed up a message.

TO: SHERLOCK

Just met our new neighbour.

Am scarred for life.

JW

He sent it with a smirk and leaned back into the seat of the cab. Two man men in 221? This was not going to end well.

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Over the next couple of days, John pretty much contemplated carving out the deep recessed of his brain with the blunted object he could find.

Sherlock had reacted badly to the new lodger. He'd taken one look at the lanky, tweed-clad man (John had let out a silent sigh of relief; it was nice to know the man owned clothes), and instantly crowed into his personal space, a frown line carving itself between his eyebrows.

Then without a word, he'd returned to 221b, thrown himself in gay abandon on the sofa and refused to speak another word for the rest of the evening.

Except to ask for tea. The git.

A week passed, and Sherlock was still gloomy, the frown line threatening to become a permanent blot on his otherwise flawless features. It wasn't long before John had had enough.

He tried the old SURPRISE! QUESTION tactic; slipping the old question into any which conversation.

At the supermarket, "I wonder if The Doctor needs some more teabags, what do you think, Sherlock?"

No reply.

Coming back from work, "I wonder what the Doctor does for a living; you should know Sherlock…"

Equally no reply.

When they heard mysterious banging (_he's not having sex, he's not having sex, I wonder if he's having sex) _ and groans from the lower flat, "I bet he's got a girlfriend. He's quite good looking in a weird way, that Doctor."

_This_ had provoked a defiant, "Oh, if you love him so much why don't you marry him?" from Sherlock in the middle of Hyde Park; scaring numerous old ladies and causing a pigeon to shat itself. Impressive.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

John's curiosity did nothing but grow. He only saw the Doctor on occasions, fleeting moments before the whirlwind of tweed was off into the distance, a fez firmly fixed on top of his head like an extra limb.

The man was simply fascinating. Despite the first impressions John had complied, the man was charming, funny, if not a prostitute short of a corner, if you catch my drift. John couldn't help but feel drawn to him. He started to look forward the little chats they'd share in the hallway, but never for long, as the Doctor always had somewhere to be, something to do, someone else to thrust his ideas upon.

But as the Doctor and John got friendlier; the more Sherlock drew back into his shell.

It was weird. John didn't even notice at first, he thought Sherlock was just going into one of his between-case moods, not eating and fixating all his attention on blasting the poor wall with as many rounds as he could get his hands on. He became snappier; bursting into spiteful remarks at the smallest of things.

Apparently it was wrong for John to get up late, for him to get up early, for him to wear white, for him take the bus to work, it was wrong for him to take the tube.

"But _Johnnn_," Sherlock whined for the fourth time in one week. "Can't you see the appalling state of hygiene, on both bus and tube, the amount of pathogens in one carriage could easily-"

"Not listening, eating bacon." Was John's reply, letting out a "GAAH!" as a pillow was aimed at his head. It missed. But still.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

John continued to chat and interact with the Doctor, even getting invited back to 221c on several occasions. The flat was an absolute mess, piles shoulder-high of paperwork in dozens of languages that were way beyond John's GSCE French and German. Articles on mysterious findings were pinned to the wall.

"**HARRIET JONES TO RESIGN" **said one.

"**BIG BEN IN TATTERS" **said another.

John remembered those events clearly; the spaceship ripping at Big Ben's face could be heard from Baker Street. He and Sherlock had been drinking tea, laughing over little things (John was attempting to grow a moustache to make him look more respectable. Sherlock told him he looked like a paedophile) when a huge shattering sound shook the flat. They'd both jumped to their feet (Sherlock grabbing John's hand in fright, then refusing to accept he'd done it later that evening) and ran to investigate, but by the time they'd got there the police had roped the area off, and even Sherlock's credentials couldn't gain him a way in.

All the news stories seemed focused on alien or supernatural activity. The Titanic nearly crushing Buckingham Palace; when the BBC had broadcasted a hoax alien encounter, which turned out to be real when the sky was eclipsed by a rock-like 'spaceship'. John only remembered part of that; he'd come out a trance and found himself on the roof of 221b, a frightened Sherlock trying to hold him from the edge.

The BBC had has a field day trying to explain _that_ fiasco.

It was obvious there was something about the Doctor Sherlock didn't like. John tried not to think about this; Sherlock had his quirks and this was one of them. No big deal. But that didn't stop it niggling at his brain.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It was 7:21pm. John flicked shut the book he'd been idly skimming, a medical journal, and returned it to its place on the shelf. He turned and eyed Sherlock, shoulders slumping.

"Are you done sulking, Sherlock? It's just I'd quite like to watch Merlin and you've been smacking yourself in the chin with the remote for the past few hours like it's actually going to do something for you."

Sherlock scoffed gently from his position on the sofa. He had laid himself across it completely; hands clasped in the prayer position with the remote sandwiched in-between them. His eyes were closed, but flitted restlessly behind his lids.

"Not sulking." Sherlock grunted. "Thinking."

"Yeah, right."

Turning, John bent to adjust the telly manually, fiddling with the buttons like he actually knew what he was doing.

"You really are irritating when you want to be, aren't you?"

"It's a skill of mine I've perfected over the years."

John smirked, then grimaced; smacking the side of the TV as static ran like water over the screen.

"I wonder if the Doctor knows how to fix tellies."

Whoops.

There was silence for a moment; so thick it pulsed through the flat with vehement force. John could practically feel Sherlock's gaze spearing his back, and thanked the nearest deity his expression couldn't be seen.

"I didn't know your interest in him ran so deep, John."

Sherlock's voice was practically a growl. John shuddered.

"Sherlock, don't-"

"Don't _what_? " Sherlock spat, seething. "Is your infatuation with this man ever going to fucking end?"

Woh. Who- what was-? Sherlock never swore. Ever. A violent shiver ran down John's back and he turned. Sherlock hadn't moved from his position on the sofa, his face still smooth and expressionless.

"What the hell are you going on about? You've been acting real weird lately, ever since the Doctor arrived, what is up with you?"

Sherlock's mouth shut so fast John heard the clink of enamel on enamel.

"Well?"

"I'd quite like to move on from the subject."

"No, fuck you!" John bit then steadied himself, trying not to get too riled up. "I've had to put up with you sulking like a bloody teenager for weeks now, are you going to tell me what your problem is or not?"

Sherlock pouted slightly, his full lips pushing upwards. With a sudden spurt of energy he twisted on the sofa so he was sitting instead of lying and threw the remote at John with more force than was strictly necessary. It hit John's left shoulder with a resounding _smack_.

That must have hurt.

Oh shit.

_Not good. Bit not good. Really bit not good._

John froze completely, and Sherlock watched as his back straightened and tensed; a reflex action – an old habit from the army meaning he was pissed. Properly pissed this time. Sherlock knew enough about John's habits (three years of watching – _gazing_, would be more appropriate - him had well equip on those) to know what was coming. He never liked upsetting John, and it was all too apparent he'd pushed him too far this time.

"John, I-"

Sherlock stopped; his throat constricting. The flat suddenly seemed too small, filled with pounding silence. Movement caught his eye; John's fists curling and uncurling from beneath his too long sleeves.

"Don't follow me." John growled. He got his temper from his alcoholic of a dad; and it certainly left something to be desired.

He'd only lost his temper like this once before with Sherlock, which had ended up in both of them sporting bleeding noses. Afterwards they'd hugged – actually hugged! – and apologised over and over, nursing their wounds.

It was all too obvious from John's tone there would be a repeat of this if Sherlock followed, but upon impulse he did. John was storming down the stairs; his anger almost visible in waves rolling off him, with the intention of walking out onto Baker Street and not stopping until his feet burned.

"Do you ever just back off?" John snarled, reaching downstairs hallway and turning on his heels to confront the man tailing him. His mind was hazing over with anger; red tingeing the edge of his vision.

"You never gave me a chance to apologise!" Sherlock whined. This wasn't how it was supposed to work!

"No, Sherlock, I'm fed up of your apologises and your dodging of my questions, and the way you've pushed me away lately! I've tried to be civil, I really have, but now you're pushing it!"

A door creaked, spooking the both of them. The Doctor was grimacing, his fingers dancing and jerking like they weren't used to staying still.

"I heard shouting, thought I'd investigate." He peered out from 221c, his looks alternating between John's rage filled face, and Sherlock's pale stricken one.

"You stay out of this." Sherlock snarled, his mouth twitching down at one corner. "This is between me and John, keep your over-sized head and lack of brain thereof out of our business."

O-oh, John almost lost it then, I'll tell you. Sherlock caught John's expression in the corner of his eye and backed right off, recognising the signs he'd gone too far. The Doctor looked mildly amused, his eyes glinting.

John wanted to punch something. Hard.

"Have you told our Johnny yet?" The Doctor asked, almost timidly. "I would say, but I don't want to put my foot in it."

"Nothing you haven't done before," Sherlock retorted. At first John thought he was imagining things, but then he realised, no – he was right; there was the faint gleam of fright behind Sherlock's grey eyes.

John's anger lessened at this, opening his mouth to speak, but the Doctor got their first.

"You haven't told him? Sherly! How rude! If you don't tell him, I'll have to, that's how it works, tit for tat and all that. Ooh, that rhymed."

"Don't." Sherlock pleaded. "Please. Don't."

John almost fell back in surprise. Sherlock, begging? The anger that had raged through his veins was leaking out being replaced by raw shock.

"What the hell is going on?" John exploded, his brain throbbing. "You're both keeping something from me, aren't you? What's this big secret, what's wrong with you two?"

Sherlock fixed his gaze on the Doctor, looking as if he was trying to burn him with his eyes. The Doctor tilted his head and raised an eyebrow, the childish grin he so often worse returning to his face. He took a step forward and gave Sherlock a poke in the arm.

"Don't touch me." Sherlock batted the hand away, and for the first time ever since John had met him, The Doctor seemed hurt.

"Sherlock…" the Doctor chided. "You're not _embarrassed _by your old dad, are you?"

"Wh-what?" John backed up a few steps, he must have misheard. He had to have misheard. "He's your-?"

"Father. _My_ father." Sherlock let out a sigh of resignation and looked sheepishly at the floor.

"Good looks run in the family, eh?" The Doctor thrust his chin the air, obviously happy to have finally surfaced this secret.

_No, no, no this is a joke, this is a dream, this isn't happening, SHUT DOWN, SHUT EVERYTHING DOWN._

He looked between the two of them, mouth hanging open.

Well, shit.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hi everyone! Well, here we go with another chapter. I've listened to all your advice and I totally agree, so I'm putting more effort into this one. And a plot! *yaaay* I've also put some smut in, for those asking. The smut isn't strictly part of the plot, so you can skip it if you like.**

**Or not. xD**

**I hope you enjoy it. **

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Two days after the whole yeah-I-passed-out-and-head-butted-your-dad-in-the-face-oh-the-memories-and-the-pain, John still hadn't grasped the concept.

He'd been sat down, he'd been given the condescending tone, hell – he'd even been offered a two night stay and accommodation in Paris (cold caller, but tempting), and yet this wasn't something his brain wanted to accept.

Whiskey. Whisky would work.

Whiskey and sex, if there was any on offer.

What really got on John's nub was that Sherlock and The Doctor were treating this as if it was _perfectly normal._

It was early in the morning, sunlight trickling through the windows of 221b like liquid. John and Sherlock sat opposite each other on the dining table, both of them still in their pyjamas; John in his cotton shorts and comedy t-shirt (Monty Python, of course – how can you not love 'FETCHÉ LA VACHE!'), and Sherlock donned in his traditional silk attire and dressing gown. Two steaming cups of tea sat in front of them, untouched.

The Doctor was leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen, studying the two of them with an amused glint in his eyes. He wasn't wearing pyjamas (much to John's dismay), but his usual tweed explosion.

"John, you have to understand," Sherlock implored, probably for the fiftieth time that morning – John had lost count after they broke out the flow chart. "You remember the Cypermen?"

_How could I not,_ John thought – the Cybermen incident was a memory burned into his mind forever. Waking up – hungover – to find Sherlock poking a human brain he'd somehow extrapolated from one of the thousands of silver robots lining Baker Street like the world's most glittery regiment.

"Yes."

"You remember Mycroft calling to ask if we had recollection of a man called Saxon?"

"Yes."

"You remember when you were Christmas shopping and those mannequins attacked you and you screamed like a woman?"

"Then saved about 40 people, yes, thanks for bringing that up."

"I didn't know a human male could achieve such a high octave. I think for a moment, only _dogs_ could hear you screaming…"

"Er- is there a point to this?"

"Of course John, don't be dense. So. You don't deny the existence of aliens?"

"Well no, I _was_ there when Mycroft had an Adipose crawling out of his skin. His face… Classic."

Sherlock gave a smirk at this. Oh, the Adipose incident. He only had to mention the word to Mycroft and he'd start dieting like a fat kid running for a cake.

"Now, John, do you have a stethoscope on hand?"

"Er." John spun in his chair, and reached into the cupboard under the kitchen sink where he kept his medical kit. He has about four scattered variously around the house. It's a safety precaution, of course, because no one could ever predict when Sherlock would spontaneously set himself alight, or pour sulphuric acid into his eyes.

Or having a raging hard-on that wouldn't disappear that he needed John to help with.

OK, maybe not the last one. But John was allowed to hope, right?

The John in question pivoted back round, stethoscope in hand and held it questioningly in front of him. "Got one. Why do you need it?"

Sherlock's mouth twitched at the corners and he turned to beckon the Doctor forward. He reciprocated, and sat at the head of the table, looking ever so slightly like the cat that got the cream, or any saucy alternatives to this metaphor.

_Oooh, saucy. _

"Listen." Sherlock said gently, taking the stethoscope from John's hands. He tucked the two earpieces into John's ears and leant across the table to place the chest piece over the left side of the Doctor's chest. A deep, _bu-bum, bu-bum, bu-bum _flooded into John's ears.

"Did you know you can improvise a lie detector test using just a stethoscope?" Sherlock murmured, "The heart involuntarily breaks its rhythm when a lie is told."

"And your point is…?" John asked, trying his best not to imagine leaning in and placing his head over the Doctor's heart to listen to it that way. Oh boy.

Giving John a smile, Sherlock turned to the Doctor, "Are you currently in 221b Baker Street, Westminster."

The Doctor let out a little, 'aaahha' as he caught Sherlock's drift. "Yes."

The rhythm of his heart kept its pace.

"Do you have a son, named Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes."

Same result.

Sherlock shot John a strange look, then looked back to the Doctor.

"Are you a human?"

John's eyes shot up and widened. W-where was this going exactly?

"No." came the reply.

The Doctor's heart didn't falter, meaning he was telling the truth. Holy shit.

"Is this some kind of joke?" John spluttered, grabbing the side of the table for support.

_Oh Christ I've lusted over an alien. What does _that_ say about my taste in men?_

"If you don't believe his heart, why not double check with the other?" Sherlock crooned, moving the stethoscope to the right side of the Doctor's chest. Again, a strong, heavy heartbeat zinged to John's ears.

The Doctor was an alien with two hearts. John's medical brain suddenly went into overdrive with questions on where that extra blood flow went.

It's safe to say John really didn't have a clue what was happening anymore.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sherlock straightened up, assessing the area around the man. "He was a Government official, working late last night, drugged, then brought here… most likely for information, and when he wouldn't comply, or his kidnappers realised he couldn't supply them with the information they wanted they killed him."

"They?" Lestrade asked, stuffing his hands into his pockets. It was cold, their breaths swirling like smoke in front of their lips when they spoke.

"Yes, _they._" The corners of Sherlock's mouth turned down. "Footsteps, all around the body, not ours – too big, leather patent, so expensive – the kidnappers had money - but of varying sizes so it wasn't just one person but several…"

Sherlock pulled his pocket magnifying glass from the pocket of his coat and stepped closer to the body.

"Lacerations to the neck, wrists and ankles. He was bound, and struggled against his bonds causing the deeper wounds… He was gagged with masking tape; you can see where the fine hairs on his face are gone from where it was ripped off, with traces of sticky residue around the lips. The cuts here," Sherlock pointed to the dead man's chest, "were made after he died; no other wounds to the body so he wasn't tortured... His hands were bound with handcuffs, police-standard, so that narrows the field significantly – the kidnappers have police connections or are themselves police officers…"

John didn't miss the quirked eyebrow sent in Lestrade's direction.

"You're looking for a group of four men, all around 6' 9'' in height, going by the girth of the footsteps surrounding the body; with abnormally long fingernails and calluses on their hands. This was a personal attack, most likely the victim knew the kidnappers. It's not random, it's too premeditated for that; the empty warehouse-"

Sherlock broke off for a second, bending down to examine the body once more, examining the man's fingers then disappearing behind a bunch of crates. When he returned, he was carrying a large petrol canister.

"Just as I thought. They planned to burn the body after they'd finished with him; get rid of the evidence but they were interrupted somehow; something was more important than destroying the body of a murdered man…"

Lestrade nodded, taking in this information. "Right. I'll get back to the Yard and see if anyone's filed a missing persons report on a Government official. _Text me_ if you find anything else out."

Sherlock held his head stiffly, not wanting to comply, but gave a swift nod. He turned away and back to John who was standing a bit back from the body lying on the floor, looking at it with a grim expression.

" I'll need to take a sample of his blood to see what drug they used…"

"Use your overt manly charm on Molly; I'm sure she won't mind."

_I know I wouldn't._

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment. "I'll have to check this man's records, if he's in the Government he'll have made some enemies, find out what he had access too. One of Mycroft's understudies owes me a favour – got him out of a spot of bother with the Swedish Government – can I use your phone?"

John pulled it out of his pocket and handed it across. "Where's your own phone?"

"In my pocket."

John scoffed. "And you couldn't use that because…?"

"Because it might be crossing the boundaries of our friendship if I ask you to fish my mobile from the pocket of my boxers."

John turned an attractive beetroot colour. _No shit, Sherlock. _"Oh."

_Oh I dunno, I like to think of myself as a helpful man…_

"Sent." Sherlock handed John back his phones with a chaste smile, "Now come on, John, this case isn't going to solve itself."

Before John could kindly offer up his hands for whatever sort of social experiment Sherlock deemed necessary, they were walking out of the warehouse – and down out onto the road to hail a taxi.

"It doesn't make sense John…"

"Hmm…?" John replied; he was too busy replaying the memory of Sherlock saying 'sticky residue around the lips'. Must. Resist. Urge. To. Wank.

"Why didn't they finish the job? Why leave the body where it could be found?"

"Maybe someone walked in on them?"

"No, John, think – really think. They obviously planned this. There are no traces of hair or any finger prints except the victims so the murders weren't completely incompetent, they thought it through. They would've checked the times the warehouse was in use, otherwise they would have gone elsewhere."

"It's beyond me anyway."

"Yes, I know." Sherlock said, biting back a smirk and touched his fingertips together in his typical thinking fashion. "There has to be something I'm missing. _But what_?"

John grunted, not knowing what to say anymore. As they walked, John kept his eyes straight ahead. When you live with a handsome a guy such as Sherlock, you quickly learn not to stare too often as it leads to pretty awkward late night sexuality discussions which neither man was particularly good at.

Bit like when they'd first met, when they'd been in Angelo's and John had practically eye-fucked the man then and there.

Thank God _that_ hadn't been caught on camera.

They finally hailed a taxi and clamoured in; John catching a glorious glimpse of that glorious arse.

"Mayfair, please." Sherlock instructed the driver.

"May- Mayfair? Why Mayfair?" John asked, pulling his seatbelt over and locking it in.

"Oh, just a friendly family visit."

Mycroft Holmes did not want to see Sherlock. Period.

Any other time would be brilliant; he often used the excuse of, "family crisis" to extrapolate himself from UN meetings or Governmental discussions that bored him into a coma – and not even the good kind of coma (referring to, of course, the infamous sugar coma. Oh baby, that coma did things to Mycroft that wouldn't even be allowed in an M+ fic, I'll tell you)…

Anyway.

The man in question (known as 'Big Daddy M' to more people than he'll have you know), was sitting at his desk with a waist high pile of folders adorning the "IN" tray. He only had two hours to get through them all before he was taking a private charter airline (MJN Air? MJN- something anyway) to Washington DC; The President needing his assistance on a security leak at one of America's top banks.

Needless to say, he was _busy. _And busy meant, no Sherlock, no Jeff from downstairs, and certainly no-

Ooh, maybe a steak bake wouldn't be too bad.

He'd only taken three bites into the delicious pastry (rich, tangy, juicy meat smothered in flaky, sweet, crisp pastry; the thing wet dreams were made of. Oh good lord, if only a food boner was possible) when the door to his office was tapped tentatively.

Mycroft's hands tightened into fists around his pastry. "Come in."

It was Anthea. She didn't step in, but hovered by the open door.

"Sir," she began, looking away from her Blackberry to address him. "Your brother is here to see you. He says it's urgent."

The pastry was becoming light work in his hands, a round, bulbous drip of sauce dangled from the bottom, threatening his Spenser Hart suit with stains beyond the help of any detergent.

"Did he now?" Mycroft groaned, eying the paperwork like it was going to burst into flames at any moment. "Can't you tell him I'm busy?"

Anthea frowned ruefully. "He's very insistent, sir."

_When isn't he? _Mycroft thought, with a roll of his eyes.

"Send him in, then."

Anthea gave a nod, then shut the door. Mycroft presumed he had approximately twenty seconds to finish his steak bake before Sherlock arrived and proceeded to shove mouthful after mouthful between his lips, savouring the sticky goodness. He reached under his desk for a tissue and patted his mouth down, erasing the evidence of his little food orgy and settled back in his chair. This had better be important.

With all the airs and graces of a man with airs and graces, Sherlock swept into Mycroft's office and sat himself down on the opposite side of the desk.

"Do you know the quantity of butter that goes into a single pastry-based foot item, don't you, Mycroft?" He inquired, cocking an eyebrow.

"Hello, good day to you too, brother." Mycroft scoffed gently under his breath, setting about neatening his desk to give his hands something to do other than strangling. "Well? It must be important; you wouldn't come to my office otherwise. What is it that you need?"

Sherlock scowled. "Information. I got a text from your understudy, Peterson, concerning the death of a Government official, and what do you know; the man was working under cover for _you._"

Mycroft, master of emotions, did his best to keep his face straight. Peterson, as far has he was concerned, was as good as fired. "Did you now?"

"Yes, I did. So. You obviously know the man. I need to know why he was undercover, and any reasons why he may have been killed."

_Stop prying_, Sherlock, Mycroft thought, _you won't like what you find_.

"Richard Hardford was a freelance agent working in my department; what he was there _for_, is of no importance."

A loud scoff burst from the younger Holmes' lips. "No importance? Mycroft, if the man worked for _you_ he was obviously in possession of some information that would be damaging should it escape. Why are you not bothered by that?"

_End the conversation. Now. _

"He didn't know anything; he was simply on an undercover operation that went wrong and ended with his dead. Now, if you'll excuse me, it's time for you to go, Sherlock, you've wasted enough time as it is-"

"What? You're not even going to look into the death of one of your own men?"

"Of course I'll look into it, I just don't need _you_ sticking in your nose in places that should best be left alone."

The red Security button under the desk was being prodded at a spectacular speed.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak then closed it again, eyes flitting over Mycroft as if his mere appearance could aid him in his deductions.

A few more seconds of awkward silence dispelled between them before two, huge security guards clad in stab vests appeared at the door, awaiting Mycroft's orders.

"Hm. I'll see myself out, then." Sherlock bit, standing and storming out of the room. Being dragged out by Mycroft's luggage men was not something he wanted. Or indeed needed.

Mycroft sat back, blowing out a violent sigh. Of course he'd look into the man's death; but that was of no importance. The only thing that was, was the fact that Sherlock had managed to find out about it.

Sitting straighter, Mycroft leaned forward and snatched up the landline on his desk; stabbing the numbers in, muttering under his breath about what he'd do to Sherlock with a cricket bat with a nail through it, and held the receiver to his ear.

"Get Bowers on the phone to me right this instant. Something's gone wrong."

John sat back in the flat, watching Jeremy Kyle. It was that or Loose Women, and strangely enough he didn't fancy watching middle-aged women talk about menopauses, or spilt ends, or whatever women talks about when they were drunk at midday.

It's safe to say, he was bored. Sherlock was out, gallivanting around London; the Doctor had brushed past him with a cheery, "Off out! All we've got in the flat is _beans_, and I _hate beans._" Leaving John to his own devices.

Brilliant.

Picking up the remote he flicked through the channels once more in vain hope, but nothing was on. He peeled himself off the sofa and walked out into the hallway and up the stairs. A nap. A nap would be _brilliant._

On his way up, John caught his foot on one of the multitude of cardboard boxes adorning the sides of the landing and caught himself on a door handle before he went arse over tit down the stairs. Blinking in shock, he kicked out at the box, and was rained with old photo clippings as a wooden keepsake tipped and opened.

Whoops.

John panicked and dropped to his knees, gathering up the photographs gently and piling them back into the keepsake. They were old photos, beige, darkened, worn. He took one between his fingers to gaze at it.

_Holy mother of all that's porny._

The photo was of two sailors, navy officers going by their uniforms, in the First World War, taken in some sort of photo booth. They were both smiling, embarrassed. And kissing.

John picked up another, it was similar; a black and white photo of two men in a darkened room – one pushing the other against the wall and ravishing his exposed neck.

Gathering up more of the clippings, he realised that was the continuing theme. Soldiers, men in well cut suits, images of lover's embraces, which slowly became more and more graphic the deeper John dug.

_I've found Sherlock's vintage porn stash. Well shit._

John bent to reach a photo that had slid out of reach and groaned; noticing for the first time the tightness in his jeans. He sat back on his heels and tugged his zipper down to relive some of the pressure. He certainly wasn't bored anymore.

Once he'd returned all the photos to the keepsake he hauled himself to his feet, breathing heavily. He was ridiculously aroused. He eyed the box carefully, wondering for a fleeting moment how many times these pictures had gotten Sherlock off using them.

Suddenly he was bombarded with mental images of Sherlock, flat on his back, feet planted solidly on his bed, palming himself as his eyes raked over the explicit images, gasping raggedly, _groaning_ John's nam-

No, that was it. John pulled the box into his arms and rushed into his bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him. This was ridiculous. He wasn't going to use Sherlock's porn to wank, he wasn't-he wasn't-

_Yes, he was._

John sat and swung his legs over onto the bed, settling comfortably with his back leading against the headboard. He teased himself quickly, rubbing his palm over his tented erection, feeling the pleasure from the simple touch zing straight to his brain.

He unhooked the button of his jeans, and slid them down onto his thighs, repeating the motion for his boxers, lifting them up and over, freeing himself.

Again, he gently – using the softest touch - slid his hand around the base his hard-on and gripped it in a half-fist. He gritted his teeth, knowing it wasn't enough, and with his free hand reached for the open box he'd planted on the bed next to him.

Quickly riffling through the impressive quantity of photos he pulled out one from the top. It was black and white, blurred slightly around the edges. A soldier lay, fully clothed in uniform upon a large, king-sized bed, propped up by his elbows, mouth parted slightly. On the other side of the photo was what John suspected was the man's lover, standing completely naked, leaning with a predatory gaze over the uniformed man. Good enough.

And with that, John began to pump his hand up and down, grunting, feeling his mind haze over pleasantly. He was already oozing pre-cum, and this made it easy for him to slide his hand at a slow pace, eyes roaming the photo he held in front of his eyes.

It took a few moments for his sex-addled brain to realise, but as he repeated played the image of the naked man and his partner over in his mind, he began to realise something. Perhaps it was Sherlock's influence rubbing off on him, but he realised the right side of the photo housed layer upon layer of thumb prints, as if it was well used.

Scrap that, it _was_ well used.

John keened, throwing his head back and jerked into the circle he'd made with his fingers. Sherlock had used this photo, just like he was, probably more than once. He lifted his head to look at the photograph again, breathing from between his teeth, feeling the warm, tightening feeling moving lower from his stomach down towards his groin.

But why did Sherlock use this photo, of the hundreds he had? What was it about the two men that turned him on? John opened his legs wider, and with a final drag of his cock, he slipped his hand down to play with his balls.

_The soldier. _How hadn't he noticed that? The soldier, lying on his back, submitting himself to this man looked like… well, he looked a lot like…

Like him.

_Fuck._

John bit back the moans threatening to rip from his lips, this was… this was painfully arousing. He drew his hand up to lick a broad stripe across his palm, returning his hand to his aching erection seconds later. He tightened his grip and stroked himself eagerly, pleasure blossoming in his head, curling his toes inward.

"_John? Are you in?" _came a small, baritone voice from downstairs.

_Oh noooooo, leave me be._

Knowing he was well beyond the point of no return now, John pumped harder, barely able to think straight. He put the photo down and shoved his spare hand into his mouth, biting back the moans of pleasure. It wouldn't take long- just a few more seconds-

"_John?" _Sherlock called, the voice nearer this time. Muffled footsteps could be heard as the man hauled himself up the stairs towards bedrooms.

At the sound of Sherlock saying his name, John keened and jerked once, twice, then with a stifled bellow came violently all over his stomach in half a dozen spasms; arching into his hand. His vision whitened momentarily and endorphins blasted every nerve ending; warm ropes of come splashing over him.

There was a knock at his door. "John, are you alright in there?"

John could barely think, let alone speak. He spluttered a barely audiable, "Yeah, m'fine." And rested his head back on the pillow, reaching across his bed to retrieve an old shirt he could use to clean himself up with.

"Are you sure? I heard you moaning."

For a moment, John panicked; pulling up his jeans at a terrific pace and practically flying of the bed. Sherlock had _heard_ him masturbating. Why was that thought so arousing?

_Shut up brain, shut up, shut up, shut up._

In an attempt at acting laid back, John stepped forward and opened the door, a smile plastered on his face.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine, fine. Fine." Well done John, _very_ casual.

Sherlock eyed him suspiciously, obviously taking in John's blown pupils and ragged breath. If he was, he didn't mention it.

"Did you get the blood samples whilst I was visiting Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, raising a hand to lean against the doorframe.

"Yes I did. Molly practically threw them at me." John gave a weak chuckle, "…That poor girl. She really is completely smitten by you, you know."

This was met with a dry laugh. "Yes, I still don't understand that…"

Their eyes met briefly, as if they were sharing a private joke. The unsaid, _"I understand." _running like an electrical current between them. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow.

"So. Did you have fun whilst I was gone?"

That bastard. He knows! He bloody well knows! The insufferabl-

"Why do you ask?"

Sherlock's eyebrow rutted further up his face.

"John, you haven't even bothered to put my photographs away, the connection wasn't hard to make."

John span on the spot, glaring back into his room, and sure enough, there – scattered across the bed – was Sherlock's pornography.

With a "trolololol, bye" all of John's witty remarks left him, and he was left standing like a goldfish; mouth bobbing open and shut, trying to come up with a perfectly innocent explanation for why he had about 200 of his flatmate's explicit collection spread across his bed.

There are no innocent explanations, of course.

"Just put them back when you're done." Sherlock smirked, leaning back and returning downstairs, leaving poor Johnny standing there like a lemon at a vegetable party.

A horny lemon at that.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sherlock growled, frustrated as a cat on heat and probably just as twitchy, and slid the experimental slide covered in blood across the microscope, trying to gain a better angle.

All his leads were coming up false; he'd tested for all of the regular knock out drugs, but when they'd come up false he'd moved on to more expensive, less used, governmental drugs.

Still, it wasn't working. None of them were what were used to poison the man.

This was something new. Cue girly squeal.

The thought of that gave Sherlock a cheap thrill. The man who'd been killed; Richard Hardford, 37, wife and two kids, known as "Dick Hard" to his mates; had no known drug addictions – he didn't even drink alcohol, and so there was no way those aspects were affecting the blood sample. It was simply that something new and quite frankly; impressive, had been used. _Excellent._

Just as he was settling three petri dishes aside into the microwave, (he'd tell John later. Maybe.) the Doctor swept into the room.

Obviously it was a mistake teaching the man to _flipping pick locks._

"Sherly! Did you miss me?" The Doctor crooned, his joyful persona reaching new heights on the, 'It's Obvious I Take Drugs' scale.

"Come to bother me again, father?" Sherlock sighed, watching the Doctor sit and bounce on the sofa with the expression of a three year old who's found an interestingly shaped turd.

"Not at all! Just thought I'd pop in to see my son. Dad's do that don't they? I'm not really up to date on this whole fathering lark."

"You don't say…" Sherlock murmured, snatching up his Stradivarius from under John's armchair and settling down into the one opposite it. He swung it around and tucked is chin onto the rest, drawing his bow gently across the A string in a high, mournful tone. "The last time to visit me, you were still in your tenth regeneration. I see your sense in adequate attire has gone down hill since then."

The Doctor peered down at himself, "I'll have you know, bowties are _cool._"

"Yes, and so are icebergs but you shouldn't sling one of those around your neck."

The slow dulcet tones on the violin slowly dipped and began to play out bits of _Spring. _Sherlock had never bothered to learn the whole thing, so he repeated what he knew; improvising slightly, his slender fingers dancing across the neck of the violin. Basically – violin porn.

Knowing better than to interrupt Sherlock when he was torturing his violin (a present from the Doctor; hand made by Antonio Stradivari himself – apparently the late 1600s were infamous for werewolf attacks and the Doctor happened to be able to help), the Doctor sprung up from the chair and began to inspect the kitchen; half expecting to breathe something in that would turn his skin inside out or something to that effect.

Something caught his eye; the petri dishes left in the open microwave. He walked towards them and with an, "eeehhwwwww…" drew them out. Two of the dishes' agar had turned a vile bright green colour, whilst the other had remained the same. The Doctor paused, then before he could properly think it through (because when did that ever achieve anything?) he pulled back the lid of one of the green petri dishes, plunged his finger in, and dapped it onto his tongue.

His mouth was instantly filled with a sickening, soapy taste. Before he could vomit over the kitchen tiles (the Doctor never vomits; he simply gives the gift of stomach acid to anyone fortunate enough to be standing in front of him), he ran to the sink and stuck his tongue under the faucet, clawing at in repetitively.

The screeching from the living room stopped suddenly, and the Doctor pulled back in time to see Sherlock – violin still in hand – glowering angrily at the open petri dishes.

"What did you do that for?" He growled, hastily reapplying the lids. "I doubt they'll be able to carry out their full reactions now-"

The Doctor bit back a smile. "It's alien, whatever is in that, just so you know of course, don't want you going the completely wrong way about things."

"Wh-?" Sherlock froze, then with lighting speed reopened the petri dish and meticulously applied a small amount onto a clean microscope slide. He turned and slid it into his microscope, bending over the eyepiece, trousers pulling ridiculously tight over his arse as he did so.

"It's certainly not human; anyhow, you taste much better than that." The Doctor joked; but it went unheard by Sherlock who was casting every test he could upon the green mould, before finally settling on-

"You're right."

"I am?"

"Yes." Sherlock breathed, taking a step back from the microscope.

Aliens. Bloody aliens.

Just as they thought this was going to be an easy case.

***fist shake**_*** ALIENS**_** GODDAMMIT! **

**As you can see this is plottier and less cracky then the first chapter so I hope you still approve. What did you think? Reviews are better than vintage gay porn stashes :').**

**Well, mostly xD. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello again! I'd like to thank you for all your alerts/favouriting/reviews; it's really lovely to hear from you guys! Ah! Exclamation marks! … Ignore that… **

**Anyway, here's chapter three. Enjoy. **

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

_It's dark. So dark. _

_You're running, past caring which direction; just needing to get away – far away. _

_Why couldn't you've stopped prying? ...Hell… You're in too deep now. There's… there is no escape. _

They're coming.

_You panic and throw yourself into an alley, palms slapping the brick wall, sending jittery sparks of pain up your arms. The dark of the night clouds around you, suffocating you like poison pouring down your throat. Constricting. Deafening. _

_Frightening._

_You're not alone now. The pounding of their feet is ringing in your ears. They're catching you up. To kill you; to hurt you; to make you pay for what you did. There is no one to save you, no knight in shining armour. Just you… and them._

_You're only prolonging your suffering, the more you run, the more scared you are, the more they will treasure your death. _

_Did you have time to say your goodbyes…? _

_I'm sorry… I'm so sorry. _

_Goodbye. _

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"This is awful this is so awful, oh Christ on a stick dipped in couscous. Oh, GOD I can't breathe!"

"John, that's because you have I believe, what is commonly known as, '_the flu_'."

"Don't patronise me! I can diagnose myself."

"Then would you divulge me the answer to _why_ you locked yourself in the toilet?"

"Sherlock! I only came in here for a piss! You followed me!"

…

"I'll leave you be."

Lets be honest here; John was insufferable when he was ill. Which is another way of saying he acted like Mycroft at Lent. A right pain in the arse.

A psycho-analyser might say it's because he's been exposed to so many whiny, snotty, petulant little children whilst working as a GP that he believes this is how to act. And John would say that anyone with the world 'anal' in their job title needs to keep their opinions the fuck to themselves.

Eh.

He wasn't normally a bad patient, (I mean, it was only the flu, not crabs for Gods sake) but the fact that he'd gained a cold through no fault of his own was a teeeeeeny bit grating on his already shredded nerves.

"_Jump in the Thames!" _Sherlock had said.

"_It'll be fine!"_ Sherlock had said.

"_It's not that cold!" _Sherlock had said.

"_You're a fucker!" _John had said.

They'd retrieved the client's diamond necklace in the end; John looking a bit worse for wear with half of the Thames in his lungs. The robber had slung it over the stone wall and into the water whilst Sherlock sprinted after him in an attempt to feign innocence. This illusion was, of course, shattered when a dishevelled, Creature From The Deep John had submerged himself and found it. He'd smelt of David Walliams* for days.

And now he was ill. The entire Kleenex industry could be run from what was expelling from his nose alone. It was horrible; he felt useless, and looked worse than Mycroft's backside after Christmas, but there was nothing to do except ride it out and sleep.

Sherlock did _not _want John to sleep.

Sherlock wanted John wake and running around London and making him tea and finding his things and handing him boiling tubes and telling him he's brilliant and making that face he does when he's confused and doing things and things and more things and things a very ill John was incapable of.

That sounded like an innuendo.

It may have been.

I always find innuendos very interesting to thrust in.

Anyway.

When the initial, "You can't be ill, you look perfectly fine!" had warped into, "Good God man, you look terrible." Sherlock took a step back from his complaints. An ill John was no use to him, and quite frankly he wanted his friend better again. It seemed… well, _wrong _for John – who was always so steady and strong – to be driven to his knees by this. He even looked smaller (_if that were possible_, Sherlock thought dryly), his shoulders hunching in and his head hanging low. It just wasn't right.

It was heart-wrenching.

He found he hated watching John suffer like that; knowing with a niggling feeling at the back of his head it was his fault. The initial Googling of "how to look after someone with the flu" had left him with a ten step guide he decided to adhere to.

Step one: 'Eat chicken soup'

Well, that shouldn't be too hard.

Sherlock pushed away the laptop and files on Richard Hardford (nothing interesting cropping up there; the man was based in Cardiff, has good dental records and was once admitted to hospital after being kicked in the groin and telling the nurses repeatedly that his balls were on fire) and stepped out into the kitchen.

Chicken soup.

That's just liquidised chicken, right?

Pulling a frying pan from the cupboard he set it on the hub (this is like god damn Masterchef) and set two chicken breasts onto it that he'd wanted to use for a coagulation experiment. Once they were sizzling he searched the kitchen for a blender.

They didn't have a blender.

He'd have to push it through a sieve.

Once the chicken was white through, he ground the chicken through a sieve (and people wondered why John did most of the cooking) and added some warm water to the gloop.

There. Chicken; that was soupy.

Perfect.

Grabbing a spoon from the side he made his way up to John's room, opening the door quietly and walking in. John was asleep, curled up in the foetal position on the left of his bed, whimpering softly to himself. Sherlock set the soup on the side and knelt down next to John's head, having to stop his hand reaching out and combing through the blond hairs. Instead he grasped John's shoulder and shook it gently.

"John…? John, I made you soup. You're supposed to eat it to make you feel better. John…?"

John made a non-committed noise like a pig and opened his eyes blearily eyes focusing vehemently on the man-that-did-made-him-ill-sort-of.

"John, soup." Sherlock's deep voice rumbled, mouth turned down at the corners. "Sit up."

"Don't want soup." John scowled; his voice rough from disuse. "Don't like soup."

And as if by magic, Sherlock's caring mood dissolved.

"Don't eat it then, be an infuriating toddler and ignore my attempts at rectifying your illness." He hissed, pushing to his feet. He would have continued right out and back downstairs (complete with a pout and a frowny face) if he hadn't have been stopped by a strong hand wrapped around his wrist.

"John, what-"

"Don't go, I'll eat it, OK, I'll eat the damn soup, just- calm down."

Sherlock turned back to look down at John, who was now half sitting up, the covers bunched around his waist. He was wearing a 'Keep Calm and' t-shirt. Oh, the irony. His face was pale and drawn, dark circles providing a hammock his eyes. And John felt exactly as he looked; bloody awful.

"You _promise_ you'll eat it?"

"Yes, yes!" John croaked, dropping Sherlock's wrist to gesture to the soup. "Bring it here."

Sherlock picked up the bowl from the side whilst John scooted further up the bed to lean against the pillows, revealing a rather startling pair of Teletubby boxers. An eyebrow was raised and mental age was questioned.

Without really thinking it through, John raised the spoon to his mouth to sip tentatively at it. Which was without doubt the worst idea John had ever had since he got drunk and licked an electric fence.

"_BLAAAHH!_" John screeched, placing the bowl back on the side and coughing back his insides. "What the fuck did you put in that, it's disgusti-" He dry heaved repeatedly, and had to place his head between his legs to control his breathing. It tasted, quite frankly, like reheated vomit with a similar consistency.

"It's… chicken, chicken and water. That _is_ what goes into chicken soup, isn't it?"

_Why did I let him cook for me? It's like Heston Blumenthal gone crack addict._

"No, Sherlock, it's not it's-" John found himself being driven into slightly hysterical giggles; the first for weeks, "that's not how you make soup-" more giggles, "you don't just add water to whatever you want t-" another progressively feminine snort, "you really can't cook can you?"

Sherlock was stunned, alternating his looks between the quite alarmingly giggly John (maybe the flat wasn't _completely _free of cocaine…) and the soup.

"Well, you always cook for me, so I deemed that information worthy of deleting. I made logical assumptions, did I not?"

"No-" John choked, mirth swimming in his eyes. "No, that was not logical, you big dope." He raised a hand to wipe the wetness from his eyes. "But, thanks anyway I suppose."

He was laughing; John was happy. Sherlock's heart tightened. "It was no problem."

As the giggles died away, and after a coughing fit in which John's lungs tried to make a break for it, his head lolled to one side, and, slowly, he slipped back into a fitful sleep.

Sherlock watched him for a minute; which was the time it took to realise he was watching a man sleep and in most continents that would be considered, 'a bit weird'.

But then, Sherlock never did care what people thought of him.

John, when he slept, was possibly the most adorable thing, beaten only by a kitten-wielding David Tennant; and even then it was close.

He just looked so warm, safe, so… cuddlesome. He was what Sherlock associated with the word 'home'. In a moment of inspiration, Sherlock ran downstairs and into the living room; snatching up his case file on the Hardford murder and returning upstairs with it, sliding onto the empty space next to John. Just- just in case John needed him, he told himself.

Not because he'd never had a sleeping man next to him before.

Not because he wanted to have a sleeping John next to him.

Not because he's happily be a human pillow should the need arise.

Not _much_.

The Richard Hardford case, on the other hand, was reaching dead end after dead end. It was _beyond _infuriating. There was a massive gap surrounding this man's life.

He was schooled at Harrow studying Law at which he excelled academically, then after receiving Honours moved to central London to try his hand in as a Barrister. After securing a job at Vauxhall Arches (MI6) he was integrated into the system and disappeared off the grid altogether.

Normally, there would be a back story; a cover for what he was really doing with MI6. Sherlock had found the wife unattainable, the two kids not registered to any school in the vicinity. It was almost as if the man hadn't existed, and if it wasn't for the dead body and the file in his hand, Sherlock would have easily thought as such

It was strange.

And thrilling.

Something new altogether.

The body had meant to be burned; which spoke volumes. With all the information from the man gone, should the body have been burnt it would have been like no murder had been committed. Just a pile of unsuspecting ashes brushed under a cupboard. What was it that had distracted the murders enough to not cover up their tracks?

After the petri-dish shenanigan, the Doctor had sat Sherlock down to explain to him what 'aliens' could consist of. It was weird; they'd never been ones for heart- to- hearts (or should that be, heart and heart- to heart … har de har har har). In fact, they'd barely seen each other since the Doctor's ninth regeneration – and who could forget leather jacket sassy-gay Doctor?

Of course, Sherlock knew a fair amount already; from a young age, he'd been brought up on Daleks and Autons, Axons, The Rani, Scaroths, and the Terileptils. He certainly got his eager thirst for knowledge and phenomenal brain power from his dad, if not much else.

Sherlock's earliest memory of the astounding man who was somehow linked to him biologically was at the age of six on Christmas eve. I'm sure you can remember what if was like to be six on _mother-fudging Chrimbo eve, y'all. _He couldn't sleep. At all. His brain was buzzing like a hive of bees; zapping the sides of his tiny ink-dark curls. He sat up in his bed, rocking slightly back and forth, biting his lip. How was he supposed to sleep? It was only later in his life (after the incident you are about to read) that Sherlock lost his interest in Christmas; replying with scorn to anyone who mentioned it – referring to Father Christmas as the Jolly Seasonal Paedophile.

If he had any regrets, and Sherlock had hardly any, it would be that he had not lost that childish naivety has soon as he did. Because it changed him, for the rest of his life.

Deciding sleeping was a useless write off, Sherlock hopped out of his bed and padded downstairs silently, his blue-bear pyjamas hanging loosely from his slim frame. He walked out into the kitchen and grabbed the stool from the side so he could reach the sink to fill a glass of water. Without it, the top his head barely reached the level of the kitchen counter.

In an attempt at singing to break the silence he began a Christmas-y sounding song. "God rest ye merry gentleman-" His whispered voice stuttered, high and young; long before any hints of puberty had molested him. "and something about dismay, for it is and… a-something else, about Christmaaas dayyyy-"

Well, you can't blame a boy for trying.

With a full glass of water he stepped down of the stool, and turned, running smack bang into the long trailing coat that was invisible in the dark.

He squealed, dropping the full glass which shattered on impact on the tiled flooring, jagged barbs flying outward. If it wasn't for the quick thinking of the long trailing coat, Sherlock would have spent the whole of Christmas picking out shards of glass from his legs.

Sherlock found himself pressed into the shoulder of a musky coat, a scarf rubbing against his face, a comforting hand placed on the back of his head, and another under his legs, holding him up. He squeezed his eyes shut.

The stranger didn't speak; but that was fine, because Sherlock was far to overwhelmed to register anything other than the thought of, _"Father Christmas is here."_

_Father Christmas! Ohhh- wait until Mycroft hears about this he'll be so jealous of me oh my oh my oh my-_

Comforted by this, Sherlock felt himself being lowered down onto the sofa of his living room, and the arms that had surrounded him disappeared. He opened his wide eyes as the lamp beside them was switched on, to stare up that the man, who was hovering over him with an adoring half-smile on his face; like a drunk who'd discovered a stash of vodka in a nunnery.

"Hello," said the man – his voice was gentle, almost husky with emotion. "I'm the Doctor."

Sherlock looked this man over, long coat, even longer scarf, a wide frizz of brown curls like a bush surrounding his kind face. No white beard; just a strong chin, and no red woolly felt to be seen. He felt a panic rising up in his chest.

"You're not… you're not Father Christmas?" he squealed, bottom lip pushing outwards.

"No," The Fourth Doctor chuckled at the curious thought, "But I _did _buy you a present."

Sherlock started. "But- but I don't know w-who you are. I'm not allowed to get presents, from people, I d-don't know, mummy says it's dangerous."

The Doctor's affectionate gaze lowered to the floor. "Well, your mummy is a very clever person. But I already told you, I'm the Doctor, and I'm not going to hurt you. That's enough to be going on, isn't it?"

After a moments thought, Sherlock nodded. Partly due to the burning curiosity in his stomach, and partly because he knew that one shriek would bring the whole house running. He knew that due to several experiments involving Mr Power Socket and Mr Fork. And Doctors were nice people. Mummy had always taught him that. Always.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock whispered, sitting up on the sofa, with his legs dangling off the edge. "I didn't get you a present."

Another chuckle rang through the wide expanse of the room. The Doctor sat down to Sherlock's left, one leg propped by on the sofa so he was turned to face him.

"That's alright, little one, I wasn't expecting a present from you." He turned and reached to the floor, where Sherlock noticed a brown satchel bag. The Doctor reached into it and pulled out a package covered in silver '_Merry Christmas!'_ wrapping paper. "Here, open it." He extended the present to Sherlock, who backed off as if it was a timed bomb… Maybe it _was_ a timed bomb?

"You're not allowed to open Christmas presents before Christmas!" He scorned, aghast. Didn't everyone know that? "It's the law!"

"I think you'll find, it is Christmas, little one." The Doctor replied, indicating to the mantle piece where a clock was inlayed. It read: 12:03am.

_Christmas day._

Sherlock felt whatever fright he had fizzle away and replaced by a fiery excitement; a wide grin almost ripping his pale face apart. The Doctor handed him the present again, and this time Sherlock accepted it, shaking it first and then giving it a squeeze.

He carefully ripped at the wrapping paper, wanting to keep as much of it as he could. Slowly, as it was unwrapped, a slip of material fell from between the folds of paper.

A scarf. A navy blue scarf.

It was beautiful.

Sherlock's mouth fell into a tiny 'o'. He pinched the material in his hand and raised it to his face. It was soft, very soft, and smooth. And the deepest blue you've ever seen.

"It's wonderful." Sherlock breathed, running his hands over the silk over and over.

"Just a small thing from me to you," the Doctor said, reaching out and taking the scarf from Sherlock's hands to wrap it around the boy's long ostridge neck. The Doctor pulled back and indicated to his own scarf. "Now we've both got one."

Sherlock gazed down at himself, feeling warmth seeping through his body from the fabric. He was endlessly fascinated by the colour, the endless woven strands of night-ocean blue.

"Mine is blue, though. And yours is lots of colours. Like Joseph's coat-of-many-colours." Sherlock's eyes shot back up, full of glee. "Is that your scarf-of-many-colours? Is it magic?"

"Magic?" The Doctor laughed, "My dear boy, my scarf possessed more than plain ol' magic." He paused, seeming to struggle with words. "But your scarf is blue for a reason."

"What reason?"Sherlock asked.

The Doctor shuffled forward, placing a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, the awed, glazed look in his eyes returning.

"Your scarf is not just blue, it's TARDIS blue. That's T-A-R-D-I-S. My TARDIS, to be exact. This blue-" He gave the scarf a tug. "Represents the feeling of safety and home. So even when I'm not here to protect you, you'll have the courage to stick up for yourself; and everything will turn out alright."

(Years later, a man would rush into Sherlock's life, an army doctor, a man who kept him safe from trouble and made the flat feel like home. And this man would have the bluest eyes Sherlock had ever seen. And when he looked into them, he would always feel the tug of buried memories. And he would smile).

But, of course, the deep, philosophical meaning of this went straight over young Sherlock's head by about fifty feet. "So _my_ scarf is magic?"

The Doctor smiled, knowing he wasn't going to get much further. "Yes. Yes, it's magic."

"Woowwwwww." Sherlock tightened it around his neck and pushed off the sofa onto his feet, holding out his hand for the Doctor to take.

"Where are we going?" The Doctor slid his hand into Sherlock's dwarfing it, and was lead by eagerly back through the house and up the stairs, back into Sherlock's room. It was a big room; made smaller by the sheer amount of mess and clutter – clothes, books, and toys all spread wide around the room in no assignable order. A voodoo doll of his brother (a pig toy with a wig on with needles sticking out of its groin) lay abandoned on the side.

"You can have a present too." Sherlock giggled, dropping the Doctor's hand to reach under his bed, returning with a crumbled brown paper bag.

"Would you like a jelly baby?" he asked, brandishing it in front of him.

And in that small act of kindness by the six year old, the Doctor's hearts softened. He put his hand out to take one, but was caught in a flurry of action as Sherlock shoved the entire thing into his hands.

"Have them all. I won't eat them, I stole them of Mycroft when he was calling me names."

"Does he… always call you names?" The Doctor asked, feeling pangs of anger shooting to his chest, despite his calm exterior. He put the bag of sweets into the pocket of his long coat.

"I pretend they don't hurt me." Sherlock whispered, confiding the Doctor into something he had never told a single living person before. "I pretend I don't mind, but sometimes when he's being mean, I lock myself in the bathroom and I cry. Mummy doesn't stop him, no one does." Sherlock's pale, grey eyes ghosted with tears. "He always says I'm a freak. But, I'm not, I promise I'm not. I promise."

Sherlock's tiny fists curled up and he rubbed them furiously over his eyes, hating that he was crying again. Mycroft would have ripped him apart on the spot.

The Doctor watched the little boy choke back his emotions, and felt a flaming hatred for this other boy rise up in his chest.

"Now you listen here." The Doctor said, his voice hard. For a moment, Sherlock's heart raced; he thought he was going to get told off for being a baby. "You are not a freak, my dear boy, don't you ever let anyone tell you otherwise." He knelt so he was Sherlock's height and grasped both his shoulders. "You are an extraordinary boy, and you will continue to be for the rest of your life. Trust me when I say this. Mycroft is just jealous of you because you're special. So very, very special, and I can't tell you why – not yet, but when you find out you'll realise. I'm sorry I haven't been here to help you grow up, but this is just how it has to go. You're an amazing boy, Sherlock. Believe me."

Sherlock wiped the last of the moisture from his eyes and sniffed; eyes boring into the Doctor's pale ones.

"Will you stay?" Sherlock asked, voice hushed. "Just for Christmas."

With a nod, the Doctor led Sherlock into his bed and tucked him in, running a hand over the disarray of curls. "Go to sleep, Sherlock."

Sherlock mumbled, tired now, and fell into a dreamless sleep, a small smile still playing across his face.

In the morning, the Doctor wasn't there.

In the morning, Sherlock was sent to his room for smashing a glass.

In the morning, he cried because Mycroft was being horrible again.

By the end of the morning, Sherlock realised the Doctor wasn't coming back.

And that hurt.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

There was a snuffling sound from beside him, and then a weight pressing against his side. Sherlock started, breaking out of his revere and staring down at himself. John had rolled, still fast asleep and was now half draped over Sherlock's chest, head over his heart, mumbling indistinctly.

_Aargh; what were the protocols for this? _

John snuggled in closer his face nuzzling up against Sherlock's neck, and let out a contented sigh like an oversized cat on steroids.

_Oh, I feel used._

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, still wallowing slightly in self pity, and lowered his head to graze his lips across the sandy hair by his face. He turned and laid the side of his head on top of John's, then reached into his pocket to pull out his mobile.

A wave on inspiration washed over him, the links in his head joining like lego.

Aliens. Mycroft's department. The strange substance.

Oh. _Oooh._

It was obvious. It'd been staring in front of him all along.

**To: Lestrade**

**What information do you have on 'Torchwood'?**

**-SH**

Sent. He grinned. The gap in Hardford's life was far from filled, but this was a start.

Almost instantly, Lestrade replied.

**To: Holmes**

**Nevermind that; there's been another murder, I need you here as soon as you can. **

**I'm so sorry, Sherlock.**

**Mycroft's dead.**

**-L**

The light of Sherlock's phone flickered, then blackened, and there was nothing to break the deafening silence pounding in the air.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

**Dun, dun duuuuuun! **

**Well, that was fun to write. I have so many headcanons Wholock-wise I might as well get them out of my system. Sorry for the lack of humour in this part; I wanted to get across Sherlock and the Doctor's relationship and got a bit carried away! **

**So, who do you think is Sherlock's mum? All will be revealed, my pretties… *sinister Wicked Witch of the West cackle***

**Reviews are better than TARDIS blue scarves. :) x**

_***David Walliam's did the Thames swim a few weeks ago and admitted to peeing in the Thames, repeatedly. So if you ever accidentally inhale the Thames; you may be ingesting a bit of David Walliams. I'll leave you with that thought xD. **_


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello, sorry for the wait! I've been a bit poorly recently, but I'm back now and ready to roll. **

**Chapter Four. Now with gratuitous BAMF!Amy Pond. **

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

A bit of friendly advice; NEVER involve John Watson in a talk on pubs and bars. _Ever._

The only possible thing you could to compare it too is being clubbed round the face with an obese man's tit.

I'm not sure what circumstances you'd have to be under to be involved in a batting match with a tit. Some sort of fetish maybe?

Now, The Doctor has seen a man being clubbed to death with a tit; and you should believe him when he says it is not in anyway way amusing. Although it does rank high on the "Amusing Deaths" list after being mauled to death by Year 7s trying to get to class.

… 'Death by tit'… what a way to go.

Basically, talking bars and pubs with John Watson meant you sitting for three hours being instructed on every single one of John Watson's "pub relationship fails".

Which consists of every relationship he ever started in a bar.

It's _painful,_ and worse than listening to Vorgon Poetry, if you'll excuse the reference. (The Doctor often mused about if he should take John to see Arthur Dent; the men were incredibly similar, minus John's military background. Then again, _two Johns?_ My, my. That's a whole different birthday).

John sat in The Black Swan swilling his pint around. Sherlock had flung him off the bed – quite literally, it was like someone had zapped his arse with a live wire – and zoomed off with no explanations. Like usual then. He didn't usually go to the bar to sulk (oh no; usually he just went down to 221c for a hug. Just a hug, mind you. Although John's imagination would tell you otherwise…), but this was a singular occasion on which it was needed. Chicken soup filled, and slightly randy because you've been cuddled up to your flatmate? Pub.

And anyway, the Doctor, truth be told, was rubbish during an emotional crisis. John was surprised he didn't break out a rake and rake poor John about his troubles. Although the idea of the Doctor stroking him with a long stick filled euphemistic-John with glee. Glee and a hard on you could use to break down walls.

Imagine that… John Watson wielding a ten foot boner smashing down walls…

Oh boy.

"Another pint please, Mary." He called to the barwoman, who smiled sympathetically at the wounded-puppy-dumped-by-my-boyfriend John was wearing.

"Right you are, my luuurve." Was her reply as she turned to pull another beer. John smiled at her and bent to lean on the bar, twiddling a bar matt between his fingers.

It wasn't a busy night at The Black Swan; a few groups of men sat around in worn booths, lagers held in meaty hands and crusty mouths. There were a few women tonight; this was always a surprise (with The Black Swan being the shit-hole that it was), giggling and gossiping not far from where John stood.

There was nothing but the thrum of hushed conversation and the clinking of glass for a few moments, then a muffled buzz as John's phone vibrated. He pulled it out, opening the text.

**To: The Tea-Maker**

**New lead. Need you to text Lestrade**

**and request files on 'Torchwood'.**

**-SH.**

Sherlock. What a surprise. John was beginning to think noone text him but Sherlock. Apart from the occasional "GUT PHNE ON NEED U LOL AM STUCK IN LOO dog chased me in" from the Doctor, of course.

'The Tea-Maker'? John's internal self sighed.

**To: Shercock**

**Why can't you text him yourself?**

**-JW**

John smirked into his beer and moved into an empty booth, avoiding the intricate patterns of vomit someone had kindly left behind. The human race really was a generous creature. The reply came soon after.

**To: The Tea-Maker**

**He's annoyed at me.**

**I insinuated an intimate relationship **

**between him and his hand in the**

**broom cupboard. **

**-SH**

Of course. John couldn't resist a bubble of high-pitched laughter.

**To: Shercock**

**I see. Is it a long-term relationship?**

**I'll text him now.**

**-JW**

By now, John's manly giggles (or _'chuckles'_ as he calls them, but we all know otherwise), had drawn quite a few lingering looks from a group of girls posed around the bar. For one, they were quite loud, and two; how can you not love manly giggles? He glanced up, half embarrassed that he'd been heard, and looked straight into the eyes of one of the women from the bar. She was stunning, startlingly so, and John resisted the urge to check behind him to see if she was actually looking at him. She wore skin tight jeans (please refrain from singing), a simple band tee-shirt and a blazer, and had ginger curls cascading over her shoulders.

_Oh crap, and she's wearing heels. GROW body godammit, GROW! NOW! Damn my hobbit genes. I'll have to rely on my cheeky good looks and ability to turn my eyelids inside out. _

"Hi!" She exclaimed, slumping into the chair opposite John with a wide smile across her face, whilst John rolled his tongue back into his mouth.

"Hello."

_BUZZ, _went his phone, which translated as: _PAY ATTENTION TO ME, YOU SLAG_.

He ignored it.

"I'm Amy." She explained, holding out a slim, pale hand. John took it and they shook hands. "You looked a bit lonely, sweetie, I thought I'd join you… if that's alright…?"

"Yes, yes," John plastered on the smile he referred to as 'The Womaniser', "Of course it is. I'm John, by the way."

"John. Jooohn. Joh-ho-nay." She giggled and pointed back to the bar where two women were standing, hips cocked at suggestive angles. "My two friends dared me to come and talk to you. I'm _awful _at talking to guys."

"Well, you're doing brilliantly," he grinned. The two women at the bar wiggled their fingers at him, coy smiles on both their faces. One of them was an attractive lady, around John's age, who was clad in a jeans and a stylish top. She had a huge 'fro of blond hair and a plentiful bosom (which is always a good way to describe a woman). The other was a tall, skinny woman with a very large nose, who was wearing what looked to be a curtain, pinned in place with a safety pin.

_She looks like a man in a wig, she does. _

_No, no, she doesn't, don't be cruel. Hey wait, what; OH GOD HAIRY LEGS FFFFF-_

His phone buzzed, again, breaking his train of thought and this time catching Amy's attention.

"Are you… not going to answer that?" She asked, a perfect eyebrow rutting upwards.

"Yes, sorry, excuse me." He muttered, pulling his mobile from his pocket, angrily. He had two texts from Sherlock.

The ultimate cock-block.

**To: The Tea-Maker**

**Of course it's a long term-relationship, **

**Lestrade grew up with his hand, it's **

**likely they bonded from a young age;**

**starting with kissing then slowly as**

**they both matured, their relationship**

**became more… adult. **

**Have you text him? … Are you doing it?**

**Have you done it?**

**-SH**

Then,

**To: The Tea-Maker**

**JOHN. ANSWER ME.**

**-SH**

John typed his reply out, stabbing at the tiny keys as if they were Sherlock's face.

**To: Shercock the Cock-Block**

**Yes, I'm doing it. Keep your**

**knickers on. And I'm kind of**

**busy, so if you don't mind,**

**please don't text me.**

**-JW**

There, that should do it. But, then, you should never underestimate the lengths Sherlock will go to completely massacre a relationship. For reference see: Circus date with Sarah. And, whilst we're at it, any date John was naïve enough to bring home. And after the, "Oh I'm sorry, Jane for my flatmate injection your dog with steroids, it's for a case you see, I'm sure your dog will make a lovely body builder." Incident, John would always either go to his lady-friend's house, or chain Sherlock to a radiator somewhere for a few hours. Not that he's ever chained Sherlock to a radiator.

Kin-kyyyyy.

After sending a withering text to Lestrade, he smiled back up at the poor woman who he'd seemingly abandoned.

"Would you like a drin-" he began, and ended with, "Oh for the love of cock sucking Hitler babies." as a buzzing interrupted him once more. He looked down at his phone, missing the sight of Amy taking a sip of his pint with an awkward look upon her face.

**To: The Tea-Maker**

**Busy? How could you possibly **

**be busy? … Are you at the pub?**

**-SH.**

"I'd love a drink, thanks." Came a timid voice. "Something strong."

"I might have to join you there," John smirked.

**To: The Tea-Maker**

**I'll take your silence as a yes.**

**But what would keep you busy**

**at a **_**pub**_** of all places? **

**Are you there with a woman?**

**-SH**

"Whoever your texting seems quite insistent…" Amy frowned, obviously loosing interest in the conversation. Bugger. "Does your girlfriend always text you that much?"

_Flirting rule #23_, subtly pose a non-question as to whether they have a girl/boyfriend already.

_Flirting rule #23_: Achieved. Bonus points for leaning in as if you're actually interested in the conversation.

"It's not my girlfriend- not- not that I have a girlfriend." John managed to splutter out. "It's my flatmate."

**To: The Tea-Maker**

**John, what are you doing with **

**a woman? Actually, don't answer**

**that I know perfectly well what **

**you're doing. How pedestrian.**

**Don't bring her back to the**

**flat. Or else.**

**-SH**

Oh to hell with it.

**To: Shercock the Cock-Block**

**Kindly piss off.**

**And don't text me again.**

**-JW**

"Well your _flatmate_ is obviously very into you." Amy leant forward, lacing her fingers together and resting her chin on them. "Is there anything I should know before I let you buy me a drink?"

"Nothing that would interest you," John smiled. Wanking off to your flatmate's porn collection and climaxing when he called your name isn't usually something you bring up on a first date unless you want a mouth full of fist. "…Although, I can play the clarinet."

Amy threw back her head laughing, unperturbed by the buzzing of John's phone against the table. John took the opportunity to drain his pint.

"In that case, I think you'd better buy me a drink." She giggled. "You'd better hurry up, soldier."

"Indee-"

What.

_What?_

John went from slouching to a ram-rod straight back in under a second.

"_Soldier_? How did you-?"

Amy's friendly smile slipped from her face, replaced with that off fierce intensity.

"Who the fuck are you?" John practically bellowed, feeling inklings of fear settle in the pit of his stomach.

"I'm Amy Pond, _sweetie._" Her voice was little above a growl. "And I believe you know a man called The Doctor."

"Th- Doctor?" Black spots danced in front of his eyes, refusing to disappear when he blinked. A flashback; looking down to see a text- Amy sipping his beer- _slipping something into it._

Shit.

"You know full well who I'm talking about." She spat, John barely registered that the two women who'd been at the bar were now either side of him, arms wrapped around his. "And you're going to take us to your flat, and show him to us, do you understand?"

John flailed weakly at the grips on his arms, Amy's voice ringing in his head, blurring, stuttering, and swirling into darkness, static.

"_Corr, he's paralytic."_ Laughed a familiar voice, and John felt himself being hauled to his feet, stumbling_. "I should get him home. D'you know where he lives?"_

"_221b Baker Street, my luurve." _Another voice replied. "_That's in Westminster. I know 'is flatmate. Lovely chaaap. Bit weird, though."_

"_Thanks, that's brilliant." _

Eyelids drooping shut, and all noise receding John's head rolled forward on his shoulders and slumped against his chest.

Yet another "pub relationship fail".

Oh, the irony.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sherlock flung himself into the morgue, studiously ignoring Molly as she clung to him like a limpet. A lipstick limpet. He brushed off her questions, having gotten what he needed from her (the location of his brother) and practically flew up the stairs towards the room where they kept the bodies after Molly was done with them.

Acting normal over text had been easy enough, but inside, if he was true to himself, he was falling apart.

_Mycroft. _

He wasn't, he _couldn't_ be dead.

Could he?

It was dangerous to theorise without evidence, so here he was to collect data, like he always did. And hope to every deity that Lestrade really was as incapable as a toddler trying to shit straight.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"_There must have been a mistake." Sherlock's voice hissed into his phone, twenty minutes after he'd received Lestrade's text. "Mycroft _can't _be dead."_

"_Well, there hasn't, and he is, Sherlock." Lestrade sounded tired, strained, but above all sympathetic. "I'm sorry."_

"_Stop saying you're sorry, you have no reason to be, lest his death was your fault, although I wouldn't be surprised, you probably showed him the state of your married life and he keeled right over-"_

"_SHERLOCK!"_

"_-and you sound like one of John's broken Motown records."_

"_Jesus!" Lestrade trilled, all attempts at sympathy well and truly over. "I was trying to be nice-"_

"_Well don't. It doesn't suit you. I need access to the morgue he's being kept in."_

_A hesitated silence."Ah, look, I understand you want to see him for the last time-"_

"_-Hardly, I can barely stand the sight of him normally-"_

"_But, he… he isn't exactly in the best shape."_

_Sherlock paused. "I do know that Lestrade, you think I didn't tease him at every available moment about his weight?"_

"_No- no." Lestrade sighed, and Sherlock could hear the sound of him running a hand over his face."I meant, well, there isn't much left of him."_

"…_Ah." Sherlock finally caught on and sat straighter in bed, John's arm tightening around his middle."Cause of death?"_

_Lestrade blew out a gust of air. "I suppose you could say he was poisoned, we found traces of the same substance we found in Richard Hardford's body in his skin."_

"_In his _skin_?" Dear lord, maybe Scotland Yard WAS as incompetent as Sherlock had always claimed. "Didn't you check his bloodstream?"_

"_Yeah, this is where it gets freaky. I, I don't really know how to put this delicately. We only found his skin; there was nothing left of him. Literally, like he'd been skinned. It was horrifying."_

_The ray of hope that Sherlock was clinging to that told him his brother wasn't dead was fading fast. He began clutching at straws. "How do you even know it's him? All of his medical files are top level security."_

"_We had two of his colleagues come in and identify him." Lestrade explained. "Harold Bowers and Fred Saxon."_

"_But… he can't be dead Lestrade. He can't be, it's illogical that he'd get himself into a situation where-"_

"_I'm sorry, mate. Really I am. But the sooner you accept it, the easier it'll be. Is someone there with you? John or whoever?"_

_Sherlock glanced down at the lax body draped over his own, feeling his heart tighten in his chest. "Yes, John's here."_

"_Stay with him then. You should have someone with you. John's a good bloke, Sherlock, don't push him away, OK? I need to ring off now, Donovan's here. Take care."_

"_Bye." Sherlock whispered into the phone, even though Lestrade had already hung up. "Bye."_

_xxxxxxxxxxxx_

Sherlock wrenched open the door to Room 82 and stormed in, eyes flickering to the schedule in his hand. The room was small, hauntingly so, and the off-white walls appeared almost yellow under the single bulb hanging from the ceiling. Row upon row of metal tables stood before him, and on each of which was a black body bag.

Grant, F (the schedual read)… Harris, J… Henderson, B… Holmes, M.

_Gotcha. _

The schedule was tossed to one side, and in the same second, a body bag unzipped with feverish fingers. This was it. This was it. Sherlock ripped the two sides apart and fell back instantly, dry heaving, eyes stinging with withheld tears. Not good. Bit not good.

Inside the body bag, was… well… what appear to be the remains of Mycroft Tiberius Holmes. Folds upon folds of grey, translucent skin lay limply, sparsely covered in hair and freckles and barely recognisable.

Sherlock had seen more dead bodies than you've had hot dinners but this… this was something else.

"C-can't be." Sherlock heaved again, bile burning the back of his throat. His knees felt ready to give out. He peered into the body bag once more.

Of course it was him. The birth mark on the skin of his back in the shape of Texas. The dark ginger hair with the balding patch on the skin of his head.

"Oh God, My." Sherlock whispered, falling back into using the child diminutive of Mycroft. "You can't- you can't have-"

Sherlock raised a hand as if to touch the body, but let it hover over him, tears burning and rolling down his cheeks.

"You're not supposed to be dead, you can't- why did you leave me?" Sherlock choked suddenly, the overwhelming feeling of being alone rushing over him. "My, don't leave me, My, please, _please_."

He drew back the hand and rubbed it roughly across his face, the tears he caught only being replaced by more. Mycroft was gone. Dead. Actually bloody fucking dead in a heap in front of him.

"I'm going to be sick-" Sherlock whirled around and vomited violently into a waste paper basket by him, tears falling from his face. His voice was tiny. "My, My, I don't want to be on my own, My, come back, oh God, fucking _come back." _

_Dead. He's dead._

Suddenly, he was bombarded by memories; Mycroft talking him through his homework and not minding when he threw the book in the air in annoyance; Mycroft pushing him in a sled down the snow covered hills of Holmes Manor, laughing and tripping in the snow; Mycroft visiting him in hospital after the overdose, clutching his hand with the first appearances of pained emotion other than hungry Sherlock had ever seen.

Knees finally giving out, he collapsed onto the floor, staring blindly at the body bag, eyes blurred with tears. His phone buzzed and he fumbled in his pockets for it, a whimpering sound breaking out from his lips.

**To: Shercock the Cock-Block**

**Kindly piss off.**

**And don't text me again.**

**-JW**

"_John,"_ he whispered hoarsely, clutching at his chest in pain. "John I need you. I'm alone, John, I'm all on my own."

But John couldn't hear him. And now Mycroft was dead.

Everything was falling apart.

Sherlock sat on his own in the morgue, and cried.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

**WOH, some angst slipping in there at the end, oh my. **

**Some reviews would be lovely, if you please. Or, if you have any prompts for the next chapter I will happy try and fit some in. Constructive criticism, anything; it's lovely to hear from you guys. **

**Allons-y!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Filler chapter as I've starting writing **_**a lot**_** so that'll be uploaded in the upcoming days. Here is a teaser. And don't worry; it'll all make sense soon. I think xD.**

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

[8:01pm- Night. Interior: Evil Lair in a clichéd secluded location. Single chair with a man bound to it is situated in the middle of a barren room. Concrete. Another man circles him. Naked. No, only joking, he isn't naked. If only. But, he is 'Menacing'. And quite possibly 'Scary'. A light bulb hangs from the ceiling]

"But, urgh, ah- I- I don't understand."

[A sigh]

"…Well, that's hardly a surprise, do you _ever_?"

"Hey, I'll have you know I have a _medical doctorate_, now that may not seem like a lot to you but I worked hard for that, I'm hardly stupid-"

"Oh for goodness sake, it's all 'yap yap yap' I should _gag_ you, little dog. All bark and lack of brain."

"…Or you could just. Y'know. Let me go."

[A cackle of laugher. Seriously. A cackle. Like a testosterone-filled social-experiment Wicked Witch of the Gay Bar]

"Did you _really_ think things were going to be that simple, Johnny?"

"Well, it was worth a try."

"Indeed. Awh. Look at you all trussed up. I should take a picture of you for your blog. I bet that sister of yours would _love_ that. Her little brother finally contained."

"Leave. Harry. Out of this."

"But why ever not? She can bring her girlfriend, it'll be a party! A victory party! And I _do love_ parties. Naked parties! Let's get naked! Don't you love parties?"

"Not ones where you're invited."

"Oh, Johnny, you _wound_ me with your cruel words. But let's not forget, you're the one tied up like darling submissive, and I'm the one pulling the strings. Better not be too nasty to me or things might not end up going your way, Pinocchio."

"Do you want a congratulations or something?"

"Actually, now that you mention it, a kiss on the cheek would be more than enough."

[A strangled choking sound]

"Sorry, you're not my type."

"Oh yes, you prefer a certain tall, dark, sociopath who wields riding crops. _Naughty_. You could slice lemons with those cheekbones, and have a lot of fun with that _huge pen_-"

[A bang is heard. Panicked shouting. An alarm is blaring in the distance.]

[A new voice]

"Sir, sorry to bother you, sir. There's been a break-in."

"Break _in?_"

"Yes, sir."

"How exciting. Usually it's a break OUT. Finally things are starting to get interesting! Secure the perimeter, and get Bowers to contact the Associates. They'll handle things. I'm having _much_ to fun with Johnny here to bother with getting my hands dirty."

"Yes, sir. Of course, sir."

[The slide and deafening finality of a closing door is heard]

"_So much fun_…"

"Why are you doing this?"

"Why ever not, Johnny? Taking over the world is so… tedious. Dull. Repetitive, even. It's been done a thousand times over. Like your mum. _HA_… My plans have been decimated by one inferior being or the other. No, no. Why should I lower myself to their level of menial intelligence? Now…Taking over the _universe_… now _there_ is a plan worthy of my brilliance…"

[A snort]

"Brilliance. Right."

"I got you here didn't I? I managed to persuade those ridiculous Ponds to hand you over without so much as a bat of an eyelid. I gave them the Doctor's location, and watched as they threw you over like a sack of shit. I have a feeling they didn't want you Johnny. How rude!"

"But- why do you need me? What could I possibly give you?"

"Oh, do you mean apart from your charming banter and ability to turn your eyelids inside out?"

"Very funny."

"I do possess a medium of humour, thank you for noticing. Have you not guessed yet? The Clueless Doctor stereotype strikes again. Don't you see? You're the _bait_, Johnny."

[A lengthy pause]

"… Bait?"

"Oh yes. Did you really think Sherlock and the Doctor would leave you here to suffer? Really. How self-enfacing of you."

"Oh God. Oh God. What- oh Christ. This- this is a trap."

"Hurrah! _FINALLY_, the little puppy dog has caught on. Well done, well done indeed. Why didn't I partner myself with you instead and become exposed to your quick-mindedness permanently?"

[A slow round of sarcastic applause]

"You won't get away with this."

"Oh, Scooby Doo, don't be dull. Yes I will. And then you'll have the pleasure of watching your insolent detective becoming Moriarty's new muse, whilst you stand on Earth as it _burns._"

"_Holy shit_."

"Elegantly put."

"They'll stop you. S-Sherlock and the others. They'll tear this place apart."

"Your faith in them is astounding. But, I'm afraid, this time we've been a _bit_ too clever for you. You see, we've thought it all through. Every inch of this plan has been subjected to every possibility. I'm bragging, can you tell? And when we succeed, and Earth lays ruined at my feet, I'll raise a toast to you and that pathetic Doctor. It will be glorious. I'll stand as Master of all of Space and Time, galaxies will tremble as I raise my hand and bring them too their knees."

"As… 'Master'?"

"But of course, Johnny. _The_ Master."

[Manical laughter echos around the torture chamber. Two men appear]

"But now my time is up, and it's time for you to become the star of the snow. Hurraaay!"

[Shuffling]

"What-what's going on? FUCK- _stop!_ What- AH!"

"Don't struggle, Johnny. It'll all be OK! Ha… _When you're dead_."

"_Please_ –ah! Oh God no! NO!"

"Start on setting one. We don't want to make this easy for him, now do we?"

[The sound of electricity fills the room. Multiple cries of pain and pleads]

"Remember not thirty seconds ago when I said you'd have the pleasure of watching the Earth burn? I've changed my mind. I'm _naughty_ like that. Somebody spank me! … I want to see you _hurt,_ John Watson. I want to see you _beg_ and_ plead_ and become nothing more than another victim on this disgusting planet. Do you think Sherlock will want you then, Johnny? When he sees just how worthless you really are? Did you ever think he would really love you back? I may have two hearts, but that man has nothing but an empty chest. _Setting two_."

[Louder screams, whimpers, the sharp sound of a slap. More cutting laughter]

"And so the beginning of my reign begins. Behold your Master, Johnny. And cry for mercy."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: The one in which things actually make sense. Haha, not.**

**Just a quick warning: Prepare for copious swearing. It seemed appropriate at the time, OK?**

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

The Associates sat in complete darkness.

_Waiting._

Silent – so silent- and patient. They had waited for so long; the insignificant amount of time they had left before the start meant only more time to prepare.

It wouldn't be long now, before it began. Their moment. Their time. Their glory.

Their victory.

A collective shiver of pleasure ran through the group; a delicious shudder of anticipation.

_So close…_

Just one order and it would all start; the floodgates would open and the Earth would run red with blood; the snapping of bones like the finest of music.

It was tangible, the excitement. The very thought of bleeding their enemy sent them into animated jitters, until the call of the illusive Bowers and the threatening _snap_ of the electric whip stilled them.

_Revenge… _

_Battle… _

_Bloodshed… _

_Anger… _

Reams of words, running like water filled the air around them. Words, acronyms for pain in their thousands wrought the space between them.

And so, the Associates sat in complete darkness.

_Waiting._

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sherlock ran a hand over his face, seething, pacing the living room in long strides. Why couldn't his father had kept Martha as a companion? At least that girl had had an iota of intelligence about her.

It was 11:46 at night; twenty minutes after the arrival of the Ponds; fifteen minutes after Sherlock started to notice John's prolonged absence; ten minutes after Sherlock had explained Mycroft's demise to the Doctor in a choked voice; five minutes after he'd learnt that Torchwood was an organisation in Cardiff that specialised in alien control. And one minute after he deduced Amy's involvement in John's disappearance and had a girly hissy fit. If he had ovaries, they'd be splattered across many a wall in his anger.

"You mean you _gave_ John to the Master? How could you possibly be that stupi- do you have any idea what you've done?"

Amy rolled her eyes, completely unamused. If there was one thing she knew how to deal with, it was whiny men. Sorry, Rory. "Oh pur-_lease_, it was hardly our fault. How were we supposed to know he was an evil alien mastermind?"

"Well, maybe if you spent less time faffing around with your simian of a husband-"

"Oi!" Rory leaned up off the kitchen counter, where he had been poking distractedly at a pickled tentacle (for _SCIENCE GOD DAMMIT!_) "I am _just here_ you know."

Cue condescending tone. "I know; that's why I said it."

Rory bristled visibly and stormed out into the living room, coming to an awkward stop when he realised just how tall Sherlock was. He raised a finger to point it at him accusingly, but Sherlock got their first.

"Oh, would you rather I insulted you to your face? Great, just point out which end is which and we'll get started."

"You are an incredibly rude man!" was Rory's genius retort. He'd obviously never been in a fight since nursery when his teacher argued there actually _was_ a limit to the amount of marbles a four year old male could fit up his arse.

Sherlock, scoffing, turns to face the Doctor; who is sprawled languidly across the sofa with his head resting on River's lap, nudging into her hand like an oversized cat.

"Seriously?" He jerks his thumb at Rory. "_This_ is the sort of companion you settle for these days?"

"I only take the best." The Doctor murmured; an old reply. Sherlock had been less than happy having a discontented Donna attacking him with her handbag, shrieking like a ginger banshee, after he managed to deduce her less-than-ideal relationship with her mother, and repeatedly telling her she was 'just a temp'.

As it turns out, that woman had _really_ sharp claws.

I mean fingernails.

Wait, no, I was right the first time.

Sherlock gritted his teeth, rolling his shoulders backwards. "Then it would seem your standards have slipped, father."

An angry reply was forming on the Doctor's lips, when a startling, high pitching ring tone filled the room. The five of them jumped in surprise as it shrilled and echoed against the hollow walls of the flat.

"Ah! Sorry!" The Doctor threw himself from River's lap, and fumbled frantically in his pockets, with the face of someone who's looked down and found they have grown a mono-boob over night. With the phone free from his pocket, the Doctor peered at it with a raised eyebrow.

(Well, he would if he actually had eyebrows.

Raised… eyebrow muscle…?

That'll have to do.)

The ringing stopped suddenly, it was an unknown number, and the Doctor accepted the proceeding voicemail.

It was a low, male, eerily familiar voice that spoke.

"_It's time."_

Sherlock's eyes shot up from the floor. How… how was that possible? He knew that voice. He knew _exactly_ who that was. He opened his mouth to speak, but the Doctor shook his head; a silent command.

"We… have to go." Sharing another meaningful look with Sherlock, the Doctor slid his phone back into his pocket, sounding unsettlingly shaken. "Amy, River, Rory – we are leaving. We are leaving _now._"

Amy, not appreciating being kept in the dark, threw her hands in the air. "What, we're just going to leave? What about John, huh? We _need _to find him, the Master-"

"-is not our problem right now." The Doctor finished. He had the air of someone who was going to get their way, and if not, legs would be broken. Violently. Using only an array of swiss cheese. "Come along, Ponds and Songs."

He stepped forward and wrenched the door to the TARDIS open from where it was parked in the hallway, his face an image of repressed rage. Silently, the three companions filed into the TARDIS and out of Sherlock's sight, knowing better than to talk back when the Doctor was in one of his moods. It scared them, of course it did, but they did as they were told.

Just before he shut the door, the Doctor glowered and fixed Sherlock with a hard stare. "Find John. Don't trust anyone. Be careful, and think before you leap. But above all, remember; you are my son, and you alone can solve this... Good luck." And with that, he slammed the TARDIS door shut, leaving Sherlock to goldfish at the dematerialising time machine.

As the vworps faded, there came the pounding of feet on stairs, and the familiar voice from the phone rang around the walls of 221b.

"Sherlock! Long time no see, how brilliant is this?"

As he reached the top of the stairs, coat billowing with the propensity of a epic hero with wind problems, the tenth Doctor couldn't help but grin at Sherlock's slack-jawed face.

_What the hell was going on?_

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Across London, in a ridiculously expensive high-rise apartment that overlooked the dark water of the Thames, Moriarty was, to be blunt, bloody angry.

He was _not_ a happy bunny; no matter how many times his mother might tell you otherwise.

He was pissed, annoyed, fucked off, up shit creek without a roll of toilet paper.

And when Jim Moriarty was angry; the sounds of lyrical Irish screeching broke eardrums for miles around.

"_YOU_!" Jim flailed violently, fists flexing underneath the sleeves of his suit. His shadow-coloured eyes were roaming the room wildly, and he was almost foaming at the mouth. "YOU ARE PUSHING IT, YOU BLONDE BASTARD. I SHOULD HAVE YOUR HEAD ON A FUCKING PLATTER, AND YOUR COCK FOR DESSERT. I DON'T EVEN _LIKE_ DESSERT!"

The Master sunk back into the armchair in the corner of Moriarty's office, smirking profusely. He did love annoying the short Irishman; it was fast becoming his favourite hobby. "Yes, because you just _love_ the taste of my cock, don't you?"

The next few words that came from Jim's mouth were so obscene; I myself am shocked and appalled at him. Really. It's disgusting the things that man comes out with. I should have him whipped, chained naked to a bed, by a masked man dripping with melted chocolate that he's smothered over himself, his bare chest glistening in the half light as he palms his throbbing erec-

Wait.

Wrong story.

_Damn._

Jim stormed forward, fuming, and grabbed the front of the Master's shirt in a fist, drawing a startled huff from the taller man. He lowered his voice to a livid whisper that raised the Master's hackles.

"You have no idea how much work I have put into this, _Saxon_. If you fuck this up…" The threat went up finished, but the incentive was there. The Master's gaze hardened, colour rising in his pale cheeks.

"What? You're calling me Saxon now? My name is _The Master_, you piece of shit."

Moriarty giggled and pulled the Master closer, knowing he'd hit a nerve. He slides forward so he was straddling him on the soft red fabric armchair, pressing against him roughly.

"_Ooooh_!" A horrid, leering grin spread across his face and his free hand slid around to tug the Master's head back, exposing his neck. "I've just remembered. Saxon is the name of the dog from _Hot Fuzz_, isn't it? Oh, how appropriate! Because you're my bitch, remember?" Leaning down, Jim growls and bites at the Master's neck sharply, hard enough to break the skin. The Master yells in pain and surprise.

"You kinky bastard! Fuck off!" The Master, not being able to squirm away due to Jim's wiry body pinning him to the chair, he raises a hand and brings it down on Jim's arse.

_Hard_.

The slap brings a hot, stinging pain across one of Jim's butt cheeks. "_AH_!" He arches away from the contact, unintentionally bucking himself into the Master's groin, drawing groans of pleasure from the both of them. They both pause, breathing heavily. They didn't have time for this behaviour tonight. Unfortunately.

"_Just think."_ Moriarty murmured, his lips ghosting over the Master's. "This time next week, we'll have nobody to stop us. That slut of a soldier will bring Sherlock running straight into our trap; the Doctor will try and stop us and we'll _decimate _him, and then there will be no one left to stand in our way."

"Hm. Lovely word, _decimate_."

The two of them shared a knowing grin. Nothing could go wrong. They'd planned this brilliantly, for years on end, and they both knew it. The bragging tone the Master had addressed John with just hours before had been earned through hard work, sweat, blood, pain. The plan was a thing of twisted beauty; disgusting poetry that they would let loose upon the world with nothing more than a soft chuckle and the raising of a glass. This was their child – the plan they were born to make – everything they'd wanted for so long, yet lacked the means to pull off.

The two criminals fell together and kissed each other hungrily; open mouthed, biting and claiming, tongues fighting for dominance.

A large, wooden Grandfather clock that stood, previously unnoticed, in the corner chimed 12 o'clock. Jim pulled back reluctantly from the Master's warm, needy mouth. His eyes are blown wide with excitement and arousal.

"My dear." He drawled. "_It's time_."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The tenth Doctor sat next to Sherlock in the taxi, both of them talking animatedly, high on adrenaline and Mrs Hudson's herbal soothers. The incandescent lights of London illuminate their faces in the velvet darkness. As much as Sherlock despised his father; his tenth regeneration was one he could at least put up with. The smooth talking, intelligent attitude he surrounded himself with was comforting to Sherlock's fraying nerves. And, to be honest, the smouldering, grey eyed Sherlock sitting next to the tenth, tussle-haired, sex-on-thin-legs Doctor is always a lovely image to have in your head, isn't it?

They were travelling to Mycroft's apartment in Mayfair, (chosen do to the fact it was three minutes from a Greggs in every direction. Priorities) hoping to gain some clues to enlighten the situation. It all seemed to lead back to the murder of Richard Hardford.

Sherlock blinked slowly, feeling the unfamiliar feeling of wanting to impress his father rise up inside his chest.

"So. Richard Hardford was a member of the organisation Torchwood, which we know for a fact Mycroft controlled. Mycroft sends Hardford on a mission for information, and he ends up discovering something that endangers his life. He is then kidnapped and killed. A few days later, Mycroft is found dead, although not in the same manor… Hardford must've got the information through to him before his death, making him a target also. Due to the nature of Torchwood, and the sample I found in Hardford's bloodstream, the offender must be alien of some sort. Cue, the Master. His kidnapping John was obviously meant to draw our attention away from the Hardford murder, something we can't afford to do. Unravelling one mystery, will inevitably lead us to the other. Understand?"

The Doctor opened and closed his mouth a few times, processing this information. His hair looked on, so wild it was practically alive, in excitement.

"Understood." He pauses, not sure how to phrase his next sentence. "John will be fine, you know. He's a brave man, one of the bravest. We'll find him."

Sherlock purses his lips, shuddering out a breath. He'd been avoiding thinking about John, for obvious reasons. It _hurt_.

"We'll find him." He echos quietly, as the taxi slides up to the curb. Then adds more vehemently: "If it's the last thing I do."

Throwing themselves out of the taxi, they storm up to Mycroft's snazzy apartment (complete with extra wide door, much to Sherlock's amusement), Sherlock using the key Mycroft had given him years ago for the first time.

The key slid home, and he turned it, hearing the clunk as it unlocked.

Mycroft stood behind the door, suited up, a rueful smile spreading across his face.

"Gentlemen… This is where things get interesting."

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

**LE GASP. **

**It's all starting to come together now, my pretties. Thank you to everyone who's reviewed, and the ridiculous amount of people who've got this on story alert. I hope this is OK.**

**I love **_**EVERYONE IN THIS BAR. **_


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7. I couldn't help myself. Prepare for plot and pron. Turns out I ship Moriarty/Master more than I first realised. I will go down with this ship, scrub it's decks, and damn well raise the flag. All ab-ooooooooooooooard!**

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

John was spectacularly drugged up. Honestly, he was as high as a kite, with pupils dilated so wide the dark blue of his eyes were obscured by black. He giggled, shoulders bunching up like a school girl sans plaits, and pulled again at the ropes securing his wrists.

Of course, being high meant his mind completely skipped over rational thoughts and sprinted headfirst into overload over what he would do in a locked room with a pair of hand cuffs and Sherlock _sodding_ Holmes. Clothes: tremendously optional.

With progressively hysterical laughter, he squirmed and slid down the wall of his cell, legs wide open to provide the single camera in the corner of the room with a defiant crotch-shot.

Why the hell not.

In for a penny, in for a fucking crotch shot, as the old saying went.

Or something along those lines.

John's eyes rolled and he squealed breathily, suddenly hitting a drop in his hit and he plummeted into silence. He rested his head against the cold wall. His whole body ached and burned with the beat of his heart; throbbing where his skin had been split open by the force of the crop they'd used on him. He'd never be able to watch horse racing again. Or admire the ripple of Sherlock's arse as he beat a cadaver into submission.

Now there was a sad thought.

Y'know… It hadn't really occurred to him that Sherlock wouldn't rescue him; but now, when he was tired and cold and shaking, that tiny worm of despair worked its way into his mind. All the way through his torture he'd distanced himself; a trick he'd learnt back in the army. But that hadn't stopped him begging silently in his thoughts.

"_Please, Sherlock. Please, find me."_

Before he knew it, he was saying the words out loud; they fell from his numb lips before he could stop himself.

"Find me. Please. _Find me."_

Because if you don't have hope, he asked himself, what do you have left?

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

_20 minutes_ until the cameras went on.

Moriarty grinned like a Cheshire cat and wove his way through the posh house, past the camera crew, and into the newly named, "Makeup Room" sauntering like a fifteen year old who managed to pass of an erection as an illusion of fabric. He was dressed to impress. And by that I mean he wasn't wearing anything.

That's right, ladies and gentlemen, Jim Moriarty was _butt naked. _His hair slicked back and styled, and the smile he was wearing practically powering several cities. Trailing a hand over his chest, he took a few deep breaths. He _knew_ he looked good; but he was too excited, and didn't want to seem eager.

Because, of course, being naked, he wouldn't exactly be able to hide his excitement, now would he?

He pushed the door to an adjourning room open and slammed it shut behind him, swaggering forward to straddle the Master (who lay quite innocently on one of the sofas that littered the room) as seductively as he could. Which on reflection is actually _very_ seductive.

"-_Wh_at?"

The Master's eyes snapped open as the pressure on his stomach increased, only to be greeted by the charming sight of his devilishly sexy _completely naked, oh dear god_ partner sitting astride him.

Now that was always a nice surprise.

His eyes widened, and a flush burnt across his face, suddenly feeling his trousers tighten slightly. "Hello, Jimmy. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Moriarty sneered and rocked back, until his bare arse was rubbing suggestively against the Master's groin. Both of them elicited tiny breathy moans.

"In twenty minutes we'll be the first people ever to have successfully fooled the Doctor. I think a bit of a… _celebration_ is in order, don't you?"

The Master's face slowly split into a grin, catching on to Jim's drift. He raised his hands to squeeze Jim's soft arse and drag him down closer. This was, by far, the best perk of being an evil genius-mastermind, in his eyes. Jim bent and leaned forward to nuzzle into the Master's exposed neck, chuckling as he ran his tongue over the red bite mark he'd made earlier. The Master groaned open-mouthed and worked his hands over Jim's back, sliding his hands over his partner's smooth skin, making Jim hum in approval.

"We'll have to be quick-" Moriarty giggled, dropping his hands lower to tug at the Master's trousers. "-don't want to miss our time on the big screen."

"Oh, but of course." The Master's breath quickened as Jim's hands ghosted over his growing erection. He dipped his head to catch Jim's mouth with his own and they kissed, rough and teeth-edged. Jim finally got his hands into the Master's trousers and wrapped his pale fingers around his hardening cock.

"Ohh, _God_."

"No, just Jim."

"Fuck off!" The Master bit at Jim's lips and rutted his hips up into Jim's loose grip, which began sliding up and down the Master's cock _achingly slow._ The Master bit back a whine and fisted a hand in Jim's hair, pupils blown.

"I thought you said we had to be quick, you fucking cocktease?"

Jim smirked and pouted, his thumb swiping over the Master's tip, causing the blonde man to throw his head back in pleasure, mind momentarily going blank.

"But, I do _love _teasing you, Saxon; the noises you make are _adorable!_"

The Master snarled and pushed on Moriarty's shoulder's, sending the smaller man sprawling on his back along the sofa. God, he looked so utterly wanton. His cock bobbed as he fell, precum beaded at the tip. With a predatory grin, the Master ripped Jim's legs apart and settled himself between them, running his fingers down Jim's thighs and in between his arse cheeks. He paused.

"You-?"

"You should've realise a clever boy like me would come prepared, Saxon."

The Master raised an eyebrow and fingered the black butt plug Jim had inserted in himself, suddenly finding it hard to rid himself of the image of Jim working himself open with his fingers. Oh Christ. He blew out a long breath and slid it out. Jim squealed slightly at the loss of friction and hissed as the plug was replaced by the Master's fingers.

"I don't need any preparation, do me _now."_ He growled, bucking his hips to fuck himself on the Master's fingers, who grinned wider, his dark eyes flashing, purposefully seeking out Jim's prostate. Jim hissed again and raised his hand to stroke himself, his cock painfully hard and weeping, but his hand was smacked away.

"Now, now, Jimmy, you've had you're turn; now it's mine."

Slamming his fingers back into his lover's tight body and crooking them up to brush his prostate one last time, he drew them out, feeling Jim's hole flutter and contract as he did so. He shuffled forward and lined himself up with Jim's entrance, then thrust forward. He groaned, and his mouth fell open, feeling Jim's warm, _tight,_ body enclosing his cock. His mind hazed over with pleasure, and he began to rut mindlessly, bending to suck on one of Jim's dark nipples.

The dark haired man keened and wrapped his legs around the Master's waist, pulling him in deeper and making them both moan with pleasure as the angle meant the Master's thrusts slid deeper. The tempo increased, and the Master rocked in closer, running his tongue over Jim's chest and over to the other nipple, nuzzling into it with his mouth and sucking it into his mouth. It was a wonderful contrast; Jim completely naked against the full-suited Master.

Jim gasped and clenched his muscles over the Master's cock. White light burst behind his eyes, and before he knew it he was coming violently, deep inside Jim's arse. Jim thrust into the sensation and gripped his own cock, pulling himself roughly until he came, too, across his taut stomach.

The two of them lay, panting onto each other's skin for a few moments until the Master pulled back and tugged up his zip, sorting out the front of his suit with an almost comically stern expression.

"Sort yourself out."

The Master threw a box of tissues at Jim's chest and walked over to a full length mirror that stood on the edge of the room, running a hand over the marks on his neck. Jim was such a biter. Like a horny badger or something.

"And they say chivalry is dead." Came a dry voice from the sofa, as Jim wiped himself down.

The Master scoffed, satisfied he looked pretty hot, and turned back to the sofa, running a hand across Jim's chin and tilting it upwards to kiss him softly on the lips. The two of them smiled knowingly.

_5 minutes until cameras on._

"I'll get the popcorn, shall I?" Jim asked, his brown eyes widening in excitement. Oh, this would be too good. Sex and world domination. The two things on the top of Jim's Christmas list.

"Oh, but of course." The Master replied, as Jim patted down his hair. "Get yourself comfortable, Jimmy. We are but minutes away."

Two identical sneers spread across their faces like a rash.

"Lights, camera, _action._" Moriarty crooned.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Mycroft looked rough. Proper found-in-a-dumpster-with-a-shaved-arse-crack rough. Too rough to be teased for his appearance… not that Sherlock was going to pass up any opportunity to insult his brother. Mycroft sighed and held the wad of toilet paper harder against his noise, whining at a twinge of pain. Sherlock's right hook was a thing to be feared. Apart from the blood running from his nose, his face was covered in dispersed green bruises, and thin cuts.

"You know, I really should have anticipated this," Mycroft seethed, staring daggers at his brother from across the coffee table.

Sherlock shifted in his seat, a thousand different ways to ensure his brother's _permanent _death running through his brain like a zoetrope. His voice was little more than an angry hiss.

"I _mourned _you! I saw you in the morgue! You were dead, Mycroft. Dead. Not-" He waved his hand in front of him, indicating Mycroft's entire body, "Simply looking like you should be deceased."

Mycroft's scowl deepened and he stood to stand by the window of his flat, overlooking the street below. Individually he imagined crushing each of the pedestrians like lowly flies and cackling at their demise like a demented sous chef of destruction. A bit of a morbid way to control his anger, true, but it worked.

"It was a necessary precaution to keep my real self alive, Sherlock; surely you should have deduced that by now."

"Oh please," Sherlock flicked his fringe from his eyes and shuffled awkwardly in his seat. "Do _try_ not to be ridiculous, I know you find it challenging, but still."

"_You're_ ridiculous."

"Shut up."

"You shut up! Perpetulant fool."

"Overweight narcissist."

A "_Woohhh, woh woh woh."_ sounded through the room as the Doctor sprung to his feet from where he'd been sonicing a particularly interesting pile of what seemed to be skin. He held his hands out in front of him as if he was calming a pair of spooked horses.

"Let's try and get along civilly shall we? Or do I have to sonic someone?"

"Oh, lest not the day where the good Doctor has to sonic someone come about." Mycroft drawled with a roll of his eyes. The Doctor raised a thin eyebrow.

"Hey, _he_y, don't get testy with me Mycroft Holmes, I may not be your father but you should know better than to taunt me."

The tension in the room turned up a notch. Mycroft turned and walked stiffly to _his_ armchair, settling himself down in it, never breaking the eye contact he had with the Doctor that was borderline threatening. They looked like two stags eyeing each other up; both waiting for the other to engage in combat.

"I am not your son; therefore, you cannot order me about whenever you see fit." Mycroft hissed.

Sherlock, sensing a weakness, jumped into the conversation eagerly. "He always was jealous that I got the 'cool dad'." He smirked, watching the Doctor over his shoulder and crossing his legs at the ankle.

"I was not _jealous._" Mycroft scoffed. "If anything I felt sorry for you. _My _father was there for me, Sherlock, whereas yours was elsewhere, gallivanting around the galaxy to avoid you."

Bristling, Sherlock sat straighter. "Avoiding me? You call saving countless planets _avoiding me_? You really are clutching at straws, Mycroft, do try and come up with a convincing argument."

"How many times did he visit you when you were younger, Sherlock? How many times does he visit you now? Do you really think he cares, or even spares a thought for you? How shockingly naïve of you."

"He _DOES_ care about me!" Sherlock yelled; then clamped his mouth shut with an audible _click. _The two brothers turned to the mad-haired man who was staring daggers at Mycroft; they'd forgotten he was there.

The silence that followed practically swallowed them whole.

"…How… _dare _you."

In that sentence, the most powerful governmental power in Britain (Mycroft, dear) felt a tingle of fear run up his spine like the touch and drag of a serrated knife. The Doctor stalked forward, fire burning behind his eyes.

"How dare you sit there and dictate my relationship with my son. _My_ son. Who I would do anything for. I know you harbour some complaints about me for leaving your mother, but that was beyond my control, do you understand that?"

Whilst the Doctor's dark eyes flickered between the two brothers, Sherlock's heart grew tighter in his chest. His father had never exactly been the speaker of outright love; but that little sentence he just yelled? Just now? That was as good as a shouting his adoration from the rooftops.

"Do you still visit her?" Mycroft's voice was considerably hushed now.

"As often as I can." The Doctor replied solemnly.

Mycroft nodded, slowly processing this information. It had been wrong for him to attack Sherlock verbally in such a way; using his deepest insecurities against him, and now as he looked at the empty look in Sherlock's eyes he was starting to feel the beginnings of a burning regret.

As he opened his mouth to apologise, the large wide screen television that adorned the wall next to the three men flickered into life and colour burst across it. They all jumped in surprise, (Sherlock choking on the tea he'd been sipping at) and turned to face it.

The Master's face split into a grin that covered the entire screen.

"_Heh-lo, there_!" He practically squealed, excitement radiating from every pore of his skin. "_And welcome to my show!_"

"Who's that?" Sherlock asked, squinting and ducking his head as if that would knock his brain into recognition.

"The Master." The Doctor said, solemnly, at exactly the same time Mycroft replied with, "Saxon." The two of them locked eyes, morbid understanding running between them. Mycroft had been on the _Valient_ during the first spate of the Master's madness.

They looked back at the screen.

The Master had stepped back to reveal the room he was in; Downing Street, he turned and rounded the Prime Minster's desk, then sat behind it, grinning incessantly.

"_You're probably wondering what I'm doing on your telly. I know! It's all so confusing! But I'm here to fill you in on a little thing I like to call, The Master's Evil Plan."_

The shot widened to reveal several bodyguards bound and squirming on the side. Mycroft was already on the phone, ringing every high power he could. It turns out this wasn't a private show; the Master's performance was being broadcast across every channel to every television set in the world; his voice being translated by the device he was wearing pinned to his chest. TARDIS technology from Torchwood. Mycroft's voice was a blur of: "What do you mean, blocked signal? Get that man off the telly or I swear to you I will shove my fist _so far up your arse_ your dad will feel it-"

"_Let me ask you a question." _The Master clasped his hands together, resting them on the desk; a thoughtful look crossed his face. _"What do you get when you pry, and pry, and pry?"_

Movement at the edge of the camera; a flash of black suit.

"_Don't know? I suppose I'll have to tell you then! Boor-iiing! When you pry, _Sherlock Holmes…"

_Oh God no. No. Nonononononono._

"… _The people you love get hurt."_

The camera swung to the left to reveal John's crumpled figure bound to a chair, his head slumped against his chest. He was still wearing the clothes he had worn when he was kidnapped, his check button up and red cardigan, but now they were torn and dirtied with blood and dirt.

Sherlock felt all the air get sucked from his lungs. _John. John. _His brain suddenly whirled into overdrive, and he too ripped out his phone in blind panic.

**To: Lestrade**

**Tell me you've got police at Downing Street.**

**-SH**

The reply came soon enough.

**To: Holmes**

**We can't. Sniper on the roof.**

**-L**

"_Your darling Johnny has been so good, haven't you, love?" _

Sherlock threw his phone across the room, where it hit the wall, splintering and smashing. The Doctor stalked towards him and pulled him onto the sofa, wrapping an arm around his son's shoulders, his other hand rubbing across his mouth as he shook his head. Sherlock unconsciously leaned into his father's grip, needing the comfort. Together they watched the rest of the broadcast.

The Master was stroking John's face, pouting at the lack of reaction from the slack figure. Well, he _was_ drugged; what did he expect?

"_Now." _Swivelling away from John, the Master returned to the desk, sitting on the front of it, eyes fixed firmly on the camera. _"In 20 minutes, a spaceship will fly down from the sky. I know, scary right? Oooohhh!" _He waved his hands dramatically in the air, smirking. _"Alieeennss, oh noooo! Ha. _Deal with it_. They'll be expecting us to embrace them with open arms, open tentacles, open legs if you're kinky like that. You see, I've been a bit of a bad boy. I may have made a teeeeeensy little deal with them, and said that we'd form an alliance with them. I know. How naughty of me! The problem is, we're not going to do that, oh no. We're going to shoot them out of the sky."_

The Master was suddenly overcome with hysterical cackles; he threw his head back and laughed openly, his laughter ringing through the room. Now that was frightening.

"_There is a whole battle fleet of ships up there waiting to celebrate our alliance with each other; can you _imagine _what they'll do if we blast one of their ships into oblivion? Oh they won't be happy, nope, not, at, all. Poor them. They might just retaliate." _

The only sound in the room was heavy breathing; even Mycroft had stopped his threats to stare, mouth open, at the TV.

"_You cool guys at home, you're probably all _'Oh, no! What can we do? Oh dear!'" The Master, raised an eyebrow, and leaned in towards the camera, as if he was sharing a secret. "_You shouldn't worry, my dears, oh no no no, because you can't _do_ anything. You just have to sit there in you stupid little chairs and watch your planet burn around you. Won't that be fun? Some thing for all the family to enjoy! And now you're probably wondering who you'll have to blame for all this! Well, I'll tell you… You can blame the STUPID Time Lord who thinks it's OK to stand in my way."_

The Doctor's arm tightened around Sherlock's shoulders.

"_If you try and stop me, Doctor, then your precious son's lover boy will be ripped limb from limb, and I'll take personal pleasure in doing it myself." _He smiled patronisingly. "_Oh yes, I know all about you and the little family you've got going on. How _is_ Sarah Jane by the way?"_

Mycroft fell back a few steps, knocking out of his silent revere and sent text after text to the security he had around his mother's country home, heart pounding furiously in his chest.

Another round of laughter. _"And that's all from me folks! Enjoy your last evening on Earth. It's been a blast! I'll have fun watching you die. Ta-taa!"_

The screen cut from the Master's frantic waving to static, and white noise filled the room. Mycroft took a step forward to turn the telly off, movements sluggish from pure shock.

"We have to do something."

"He's got John."

"We'll have to go and-"

"He's got John."

"-police surrounding the area can detonate a bomb, it's-"

"HE'S GOT JOHN!"

Sherlock threw himself from the chair and shot forward, pining Mycroft to the wall with his forearm within seconds. "If you detonate a bomb on Downing Street you will destroy the only thing I care for on this planet, and I can't let you do that-" Sherlock snarled and bit back the tears. "I just can't."

"Sherlock-" The Doctor rose and stood beside the two of them, "We'll use the TARDIS, go up to the ships and warn them off-"

"You can't." Mycroft's voice was choked from Sherlock's arm pressing at his windpipe. "By using my skin he had complete control over Torchwood, and their weapons systems. I've just received a text saying the alien ships are well within our firing range, even if they turned now, the Master could still fire upon them. I've also had a report saying he stole the magnetic field ray; he'll have used that to make sure you can't materialise anywhere within the region of Baker Street. It would seem he's not as stupid as we would hope."

Sherlock dropped his arm, and Mycroft wheezed, sucking in breath after breath gratefully like an overweight vacuum.

"No _no_, think." Sherlock spun and paced into the middle of the room, mind whirling. "The flash of suit, he wasn't working alone. You must've heard it, the laughter, the _marks-_" The memories of the video in Sherlock's head rushed and zoomed in on John's face, his bruises, his cuts, finger marks. "They were caused by hands, small, thin, from the angle he can't have been more than 5' 7'' if John was sitting when he received them… The way the Master talked, addressing John as, 'Johnny'…" He looked up at the Doctor, pieces of the jigsaw slowly fitting together.

"When you last encountered the Master, what was he wearing? Quickly!"

The Doctor struggled to remember. "A dark suit, not very well fitted, why-"

"Of course!" Sherlock rubbed his hands together. "They must've worked together closely, he's mirroring his attire, oh, it's all so obvious now!"

"Sorry, what's obvious exactly?" Now that John wasn't here, it was up to the Doctor to ask the inane questions.

"The Master wasn't working alone; he was working with Jim Moriarty."

"Yes, and?" Mycroft pressed.

"A man like the Master, he doesn't seem like the type to share the glory…"

Sherlock grabbed his coat from where he'd draped it over the chair and pulled it on, his 'God, I'm so fucking clever.' smile practically impregnating anyone who looked upon it.

"Wait, what? Where are you going?" Mycroft called after his brother, who'd already run out into the hallway.

"I'm going to find Jim Moriarty."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The Master wiped his brow; grinning manically. He tightened the ropes he had around Moriarty's wrists, who was groaning into the make-shift gag.

"Shhhh, Jimmy, we don't want you causing any trouble now do we?" The Master stepped back to admire the view, his partner in crime gagged and bound in the boot of a Governmental car. Gorgeous. And unexpectedly arousing.

"You didn't reeeeeally think I'd have a need for you once everything was operational, now did you?" The Master frowned, "And here I was thinking you were the smart one."

Moriarty screamed blue bloody murder, but the gag muffled it. His face was red with anger. You would be a _bit_ angry if your evil plan had been hijacked by a demented two-hearted fucker, but hey, now that you're all tied up, Jim, what exactly are you going to do?

The boot of the car came down with a terrifying clunk.

There was no escape.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

**Oh dear, Jim, you are in a pickle aren't you? **

**Thank you to everyone who's put this story on alert since I've been away, I try and update as quickly as possible, I promise. **

**As always, reviews are most welcome. They give me the warm fuzzies. **


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